Ashes of Chaos: Break of Dawn
by Persephone Kore
Summary: The first story in what is to be the series Ashes of Chaos (Primary focal characters Stryfe, Moira MacTaggart, Cable, Wolfsbane.) Stryfe attacks Cable at a base in the Alps. The mountain takes exception, and Stryfe is taken to Muir to recuperate.
1. Part 1

_Disclaimer: The characters and universe belong to Marvel Comics. No money is being made from this endeavor. The story is co-plotted and co-written by Mitai, Mel, and Persephone. Please do not archive, pop-up, or MST without permission._

**Ashes of Chaos: Break of Dawn  
by Jaya Mitai, Mel, and Persephone**

Part 1

Day One

Nathan attempted to shake the dust from his eyes as the worst of the wreckage settled around him. Thankfully, the main structure of the building was still intact, no small miracle considering the attack it had absorbed, but he didn't trust that stability to last forever. An alarm was going off, somewhere to his right, and he took the time to wonder at the durability of the systems he and Blaquesmith had designed into this base, his home away from home.

Then he was hefting the beam from his legs and moving.

The main hall had collapsed partially, rock and plaster, shards of metal formed obstacles not easily cleared. He shied away from using his TK, preferring instead to climb over them as he scanned the complex.

Nothing. And he was still in the psi-shielding, if the generator hadn't been crushed.

The light of day seemed unnaturally bright and he squinted as he pushed himself through the collapsed doorway, finally noticing the faint, sharp pain on his forehead and the slight tickle of a dry substance crumbling on his forehead. Cut wasn't deep, and it was the least of his worries.

Right color, though.

Before him, carmine cape a tattered, windtickled shadow of its former glory, armor barely dented by the collapse of the base, stood a figure that matched him in stature and build, hair and eyes. 

"Don't build these things like they used to," a thick, sarcastic voice taunted. "Really, Dayspring, a flick of telekinesis and half the building came down. I hope," he continued, tilting his head to the side, sunlight dancing off the bright helmet to play on Nathan's face, "the mountain is significantly stronger; you deserve a lasting tomb."

Cable sneered, reaching a finger of telepathy towards the shields masking the base. Still in place. So far, no psi in the world had detected their battle. Nor had Apocalypse, hopefully.

"I won't be the one dying here, Stryfe." He started a slow circle, ignoring the ache growing behind his eyes as Stryfe inundated him with a series of very ungentle telepathic probes. "I can't tell you how pleasantly surprised I am by your visit, but you really should have called ahead. The place is a mess."

Stryfe threw a sharp spear of telekinetic energy that Nathan blocked easily, and suddenly the two were five feet apart, three, grappling. Nathan barely avoided the small, curved metal blade Stryfe procured from nowhere, knocking it to the side but leaving his right kidney open for a split second.

Stryfe took full advantage, and Nathan twisted away before more than a single blow could land.

"Stab your eyes! If we kill each other, he wins!" It really was a last ditch effort to attempt to stop Stryfe, and there was no persuasion in that voice. Stryfe had been a thorn in his side since the beginning of the revolt, had committed unimaginable atrocities. Blood calls for blood, the way of the desert, in the future as well as the present. And the sands were thirsty.

Stryfe snarled as Dayspring very nearly swept him off his feet, and they backed off, beginning a telekinetic dance while still probing for weaknesses in the others' psi-shields. "Apocalypse has already won, you've guaranteed it through your cowardice!"

With a roar Nathan charged, a sudden, seemingly irate move, and Stryfe welcomed it. Unfortunately, he hadn't bought the loss of control, and was not taken by surprise, ducking a backhand that would have taken his head off at the shoulders and blocking the foot that followed it. More than once since Stryfe had appeared at his doorstep without warning, Cable wished he hadn't left the psimitar back at the house.

#I wonder how it will feel when you're gone. I think I may even miss you, brother.#

Cable fought to push the slight telepathic influence from his mind, not fast enough to counter a blow from an armored fist. He felt his jaw snap as one might feel a pretzel give when broken in half, yet no pain followed as he fell back with a grunt, forcing Stryfe from his mind and telekinetically slapping the reeling telepath with enough force to toss him several yards away.

"This is futile!" He was careful to keep his jaw stiller than he would have liked. It felt curiously numb. "Oath, you idiot, neither one of us can win!" 

Stryfe had regained his feet, his TK shield holding even as Cable hammered on it with everything he had, excluding the small store reserved for the virus. "You're wrong, Dayspring! Have you forgotten I bear the name Chaos-Bringer?"

Nathan flinched as he _felt_ the enormous amount of energy building, as he felt it in the hair that stood up on the back of his neck and arm, felt it in the atmosphere as one feels a thunderstorm. Felt it with his peripheral senses, like static against his telepathic probes, like white noise to his mental ears, it was faint, it was overpowering. It was impossible! How could he manage such a feat, considering the powerful blow that had nearly collapsed a base built into a mountainside? Knowing his shields would not hold against such an attack, Cable tried desperately to break through Stryfe's mental defenses, formidable, but no more formidable than his own. Stryfe seemed oblivious to his attacks, dropping to his knees with the effort of focusing all that energy.

He hadn't been holding back, where was he getting the power...?

"Oath, you fool! You'll die!" He'd burn himself out at the very least, a possibly that was very appealing. Assuming Cable survived the attack.

"You... first," Nate barely heard the whisper, and Stryfe's eyes closed, entire body trembling as it began to glow with a light not unlike the radiance of phosphorous as it was exposed to air.

As a last resort, Nathan grabbed the only thing handy -- a rock slightly larger than his fist -- and hurled it at the alpha telepath, using the very last of his telekinesis to try to punch just the slightest hole in that building field of energy. It was a futile gesture, the faint hope of distracting Stryfe his only motivator, already bracing himself for an attack that was going to leave him to Stryfe's mercy, if it didn't kill him instantly.

And distract him he did. Nathan somehow managed to cut a small hole in the shield, and even as it filled back in like cascading water over the lip of a falls, the rock passed through. It bounced with a heavy clang on the metal helmet Stryfe habitually wore, knocking his head back and snapping his eyes open --

And diffusing the collected telekinetic energy like a nuclear bomb, Stryfe seated calmly in the center.

Cable went flying, felt himself hurling through the air as he curled, trying to figure out where down was, hoping to take the brunt of the fall on his left shoulder, the one that could take such an impact --

As luck would have it, he landed on something reasonably level, flat on his back. The air whooshed from his lungs, leaving him gasping frantically for breath as his head filled with cotton, and the sinister, cold feeling of an alien mind.

#Clever... but it gained you... nothing.#

Nathan launched his mind from his body, carrying the fight to the astral plane even as he felt Stryfe doing the same, even as they hastily armored themselves before using the fantastic weapons of the mind and will.

It was only by chance that Nathan glanced down, towards the eartheral realm, ducking under the swipe of a large blade, and his eyes widened as he saw the shadow of rocks and dust cascading down the mountain, a swift wave, almost like the sea, rushing rapidly towards the ground, towards the base --

And then Stryfe had him around the throat, and two eyes shone brightly as the almost evenly matched telepaths grappled.

#Flonq it! Look down, Stryfe!# Frantically, Nathan tried to retreat into his body, use whatever was left of his TK to protect himself from the tons of rock pouring towards it.

Stryfe didn't let him. 

The mirror set of eyes glaring into his didn't move, and the astral plane was almost torn in two as twin telepathic screams, almost as one, trumpeted across time and space, and faded instantly, the echo deafening, as instantly as the base -- and the bodies of the two -- were hidden from view by the dust and rock of the shifting mountain.

* * * * * * *

His eyes felt grainy, tight and strained, and he blinked them several times in irritation, setting the autopilot before closing them, his usually steady fingers fumbling with the visor. After a second he finally got the thing off, using more force than necessary and losing his grip, tossing them to his lap. He cursed under his breath, rubbing his eyes roughly before dropping one hand to retrieve the visor.

To his surprise, a cool, slender hand beat him there, patting his before gently picking up the visor.

He didn't need his eyes to tell him whose hand it was.

"Abusing yourself will do no one good."

He fitted it back on with less ease than usual, taking the plane off autopilot and increasing the speed once more. It was actually fairly unsafe to fly at their current speed so low to the ground, but he had unshakable faith in the radar and its accuracy. He used it alone to fly by, dodging about the mountainous terrain, not trusting the plane's cloaking ability over this part of Europe.

There was a reason the mountainous ranges that spanned the borders of Poland and Slovakia were empty. The respective countries' military testing bases were located here, and although he knew their cloaking was far less advanced than the Shi'ar technology used on Xavier's SR-71 Blackbird they'd recently recovered from Bastion, it never hurt to take precautions. 

It made flying with autopilot on a bit of an adventure, though.

*Anything, Jean?*

Glorious red hair shifted beside him as Jean leaned back to settle in the copilot's chair. Her unfathomable emerald eyes were lined, tired with tears and worry, but clear.

#Nothing.#

Scott kept his sigh to himself. He knew as well as anyone that the majority of Cable's major bases were psi-shielded for safety, his as well as other telepaths in the vicinity. It was amazing Jean had heard Nathan's scream at all, but it made sense. No technology could shield a broadcast that loud on the astral plane. It had brought Jean to her knees, crying Nate's name, and had caused the tightness of chest and unconfident fingers of Scott Summers.

Her inability to make any contact with their son was causing the absolutely numb feeling of the rest of his body.

He shifted again, the leather seat encompassing him, supporting his back, the soft material contouring to his tense body. Jean bowed her head again, projecting part of her mind onto the astral plane in search of any sign of Nate, waiting for a communication that would tell them where he was and whether he was all right.

They knew his general location, the mansion had received a communication only one and a half minutes before their latest computer system had detected the seismic disturbance on the Polish side of the Catharian range, too small to be an earthquake, but too strong to have been a freak landslide.

And only a moment after that, Jean had hit the floor.

The communication seemed to be a generic warning issued automatically by Cable's systems there, possibly triggered by the destruction of part of the base itself, and arrived a full ninety seconds before notification of the seismic anomaly. A third of that time could be attributed to the fact that their home systems only updated with orbiting satellites twice a minute, creating the possibility the base had been destroyed a minimum of sixty seconds before the landslide. The transmission told the exact location of the base and the time and date sent, along with notifying them that there were two people in the base at the time of transmission. It identified one as Dayspring Askani'son, the other as an intruder.

And that was it. Only 78 bytes of data, the bare minimum. Probably designed so to get it off before the systems themselves went off-line; any attempt to connect to or even ping the system had failed.

Hardly reassuring.

Furthermore, he couldn't shake the feeling he knew exactly who that single intruder might have been.

Blazes, Nate! Why were you there, why did you lock yourself up in your bases and your safehouses and never let us _know_? He'd walked away from X-Force, left his team and Domino, the woman Scott had found himself almost expecting to someday welcome into the family. He'd returned to them, only to take off again, heading off to his private mission, not letting them in, not letting anyone in.

His chest tightened further as his inattention nearly cost them the tip of the right wing, the Blackbird screaming through a small chasm between two severe precipices as he fought to keep the plane from crashing, only 100 feet off the ground.

The only complaint about the close call from the back was a grunt. "You payin' attention up there, Cyke?" 

Cyke. Not Slim, probably the name he'd considered using. Slim. Slym.

He checked the electronic map, plotting their progress towards a preprogrammed point. Only six minutes left before they entered the latitude and longitude of the base, and another twenty seconds before the exact location of the base.

Or, at least, where it had been eight hours ago. He shuddered to think of the time it would have taken them in a commercial jet.

If Nate had been severely injured, he could have bled to death hours ago, he could have died alone in the crumbling base that had failed to protect him --

He shook off that train of thought quickly. Jean was right. Abusing himself would help no one. It wouldn't even make him feel any less guilty. He kept his shielding tight, knowing Jean was scanning at a very receptive level, knowing his thoughts would just add to the melee of minds Jean had to go through, looking for a single thought from the man she'd come to call her son.

And judging from the fists, the fingernails digging into the soft but durable leather of the copilot's seat, she hadn't found one yet.

Scott's pulse jumped several points as his mind, disobedient to the point of mutiny, trudged endlessly forward onto the tracks of a train of thought he didn't need to pursue. What if it had been Apocalypse? And what if Cable had lost his fight? What would be waiting for them?

And how long would it take Scott to track the mutant down, and finish what Nate started?

That was ridiculous, of course. He had only half the current team of X-Men with him, only Jean, Rogue, Gambit, Wolverine, and Hank McCoy. Not nearly enough to take on Apocalypse. 

Which brought him to another, logical jump in the rogue train of thought. It was so _obvious_ that even with _six_ highly trained, powerful mutants, attacking Apocalypse would be an exercise in futility. Why couldn't Nate see that? Why couldn't he see that he _needed_ his Twelve, or whoever? Why couldn't he see that he wasn't endangering X-Force unwillingly? They were kids, but they were hardened, not callous like so many revolutionaries' bands, just toughened, tough enough to handle a serious fight and old enough to decide if it was the fight they wanted to pursue.

Old enough to choose their fate.

And that makes Nathan what, then, about eleven, he snapped at his mind, startling it into silence, enough quiet that he was able to gain back enough of his calm center to slow the speed of the aircraft gradually, keeping the Blackbird skillfully still under radar as it lost velocity. He switched off the small alarm chiming to remind him he had entered the target area.

And then he brought his eyes up from the radar, and actually looked out the cockpit windshield.

The particular peak it seemed Nate had chosen to be the protector of his base was a majestic one, the top not as jagged as some of the peaks of the range, dusted with perpetual snow and beautiful. At one hundred feet he was looking at it nearly from the ground up, and it seemed impossibly high, pure and untouched by the lands and the people below it, in perfect, absolute solitude.

It was easy to understand why Nathan had fallen in love with it.

And then Scott dragged his eyes downward, and his heart and hope with them.

Part of the south side of the mountain had given way, a darker, almost bleeding gash cut through the pines that grew stubbornly along the nearly perpendicular cliffs, the rocks and loose mud a trail of tears, of blood down the slope, ending in a pool of destruction at the foot, covering nearly half a square mile of what had once been pine forests.

And probably what had once been the entrance to Cable's base here.

While it wasn't difficult to see the clearing cut so conveniently through the trees, it was difficult to locate an area that was flat enough to land, VTOL or no. One had to take off from a rather level surface, otherwise the pilot was risking upsetting the plane and crashing before he'd really even managed to get it into the air.

And frankly, with his hands acting the way they were, he knew at this point he would be unable to keep them steady enough to successfully complete take-off in those conditions.

Eventually a rocky but fairly flat part on the very outskirts of the landslide became obvious over a small grove of still defiantly standing pines, and he wasted no time in bringing the plane down. Jean had taken off her seatbelt before the wheels had touched the loose dirt and pebbles, yet -- distracted by scanning -- she was nearly the last one off the plane, followed by Scott, who left the engines on idle. If Nate were still alive but injured, he wanted to waste no time getting him home.

He took a deep breath, eyes roving over the torn, scarred landscape, the scent of ripped pine strong in the cold air. Even at the foot of the mountain in early August, it was still cool, cooler than in many other parts of Poland. Beside him, Hank punched buttons on what looked to Scott like something from a Star Trek episode. He knew it had something to do with sound waves, used for locating hollow pockets relatively close to the surface of the earth. Hopefully, Nate had managed to create a telekinetic bubble around himself when the rubble had fallen, close enough to the surface that he could get oxygen.

God, let him be in the base. Let it be that simple.

Jean shook her head, hurriedly jumping from rock to rock, towards the mountain. #Still the psi-shielding, I'm amazed the generator is able to keep it up. Maybe the damage isn't as bad as it looks.# It was a faint hope, even her mental voice broadcast her despair. If part of the base were intact, that was wonderful.

But only if Nate had been inside. The message said he'd been inside, but it had come well over a minute before the rockslide had been detected by the orbiting French satellite and the mansion system had notified them, which left, at the bare minimum, sixty seconds for the transmitted conditions to have changed.

And with the security systems that would undoubtedly have been built in, Scott suspected Apocalypse would have dragged the fight outside as soon as possible.

Unless he'd already killed Nathan, and brought the mountain down to ensure it.

Logan was off to the side, walking softly, leaping lightly from place to place, nostrils twitching slightly as he sniffed. Behind him Hank perched, his tricorder-ish device beeping at seemingly random intervals. Rogue had taken to the air for a better look, and Gambit had split off to the left, sweeping the area around the landslide, making sure no one was lurking around to take them by surprise. Scott had only the faintest of hopes that Nathan had tried to outrun the rocks.

Faint because, if Nate were in the outskirts, then he wouldn't be protected by the psi-shielding.

With a cry, Jean slipped off a large shelf of limestone, disappearing suddenly on the opposite side. Logan was there almost instantly as Scott took off, checking his footing carefully as the rocks shifted beneath his feet. The Blackbird was far enough away that another, smaller landslide probably wouldn't damage it, but they were far too close, and the instability of the new mountain face was a very real danger.

Scott used the relative stability of a downed pine to jog the rest of the way towards the limestone shelf, even as he saw Jean's head reappear, supported by Logan. Her eyes were wild, she was scrabbling to get off the slab of rock.

"Someone... someone's buried _right here_."

"Nate?"

She shook her head, lifting the giant rock slab very slowly, with a terrific burst of telekinesis. "Too... faint," she hissed, frame shaking with the concentration of moving the ledge super-slowly.

Rogue came in from above swiftly, getting a good hold on what had to be at least a ton of limestone. "Ah got it, y'can let go an' keep the loose rubble from fillin' in the hole --"

Jean obeyed, a pink glow surrounding her, the smaller rocks staying as if by magic as Rogue hefted the rock into the air, catching it neatly underneath and flying it off to the side. Scott ignored the sudden, sharp crack as Rogue broke the rock into several, more manageable pieces before discarding them too far away from the landslide to trigger more destruction.

There was no sign of a body in the nearly six foot deep hole the removal of the limestone had created, and Logan jumped in, sniffing just once before hastily pulling at the smaller rocks on the farthest wall of the hole.

"Jeannie, leggo this side, he's in here --"

She did, slowly, only a small window in her TK wall, and the rocks cascaded around Logan's waist like gumballs from a machine. He assisted their fall, shoveling them out as he cleared a ledge in the unstable wall, and suddenly they saw the darkness as he revealed a pocket of air and space in what had been tightly packed earth and rock.

It took Logan only a second more to clear a sizable hole, and Rogue jumped into the hole, crawling through to hold up the ceiling of the chamber Logan had revealed. Logan climbed in as well, his grunts seeming muffled, and then a terribly familiar face, covered in dried blood, flopped lifelessly out of the hole, not flinching as sunlight found and played with the filthy silver hair that hung in sweat- and blood-drenched locks from that battered head.

"Oh, God," Jean whimpered, and Scott very gently took Jean's hand, projecting his calm as she lost concentration for a split second, as part of the rock wall buckled. His voice was quiet.

"Hank, go get the stretcher."

There was an indignant huff and the almost musical tinkle of pebbles sliding. "I anticipated your order," was the soft reply, and Scott turned his head to see Hank, the stretcher awkwardly over his shoulder as he leapt the last several yards.

Jean squeezed his hand and Scott turned back, in time to see Nate's head disappear, and then the familiar yellow uniformed butt of Logan squeezing back out.

"Hank, get down here."

There was barely enough room for the stretcher to lie flat at the foot of the small cell they'd excavated, and Hank clung perilously to the wall as Logan dragged Nathan out of the hole. His uniform was covered in filth, dust and mud, blood and fluids, as torn as the body that occupied it. Nathan offered no resistance and no sound as he was very gently placed on the stretcher, Logan forced to stand on either side of Nathan's hips as he poked his head back into the room. He pulled it out a second later, looking not up at them but at the rock around him.

"Jeannie, this room's gonna go when Rogue comes out, can y'keep it standing?"

She was sweating, trembling with the strain of the rock she was keeping in place, but she nodded sharply.

"Yes," Scott called down, suppressing the urge to tell her it was too much, she was going to push past her limits.

Logan grabbed the walls, hefting himself out of the hole, before lying on his stomach and reaching down. Hank clung to the sides of the wall, bare feet obviously cut, leaving small spots of blood on the dust and rock. He reached down, grabbing the two handles of the stiff stretcher, and with a grunt of effort, managed to raise the entire thing several feet. Logan snagged the other end, and Rogue's hand poked out of the hole, holding it steady as Hank climbed out. Seconds later the two men had hefted the stretcher - and Cable - out of the hole.

"Get the hell out of the way. This whole section's gonna go when Jean stops holdin' it together." Scott spared a quick glance at his son, not detecting a rising and falling of chest, seeing the visible spread of the T-O as it took advantage of his helplessness to contain it. The uniform covering his chest was shredded, displaying the extensive bruising on his ribcage, the swollen collarbone. His jaw was equally swollen, most likely broken, and his eyes remained closed, face paler than Scott had ever seen it. His gaze flew back to Jean as her legs gave way and she crashed down to one knee, hands braced against the rock, fingers curled.

"Can't hold it... much longer," she hissed between clenched teeth, brow knitted with concentration, shaking very noticeably. Logan and Hank hurried down the rocks, struggling to keep the stretcher level, and Scott backed off several yards, watching the rocks and doing the equations in his head.

"Rogue, grab Jean on your way up, Jean, let go as soon as you're airborne. Don't try to control it, I don't think it's enough to set off a very large landslide." Really, they were too near the base of the mountain itself to cause a more severe landslide. He hurried down the slope and to the left, knowing he didn't have Hank and Logan's head start, knowing he wouldn't beat the rocks to the bottom. To the left he spotted some of the larger rocks and he had a feeling they'd hold steady. Jean was almost at her breaking point, they had to give her some relief now, when she could still control the release of the rocks.

He cast one more look towards Logan and Hank, bounding incredibly smoothly toward the plane. Not out of range, but they would be before the rocks got there. They'd be safe. Remy was racing from the plane with a manual respirator, completely out of harm's way.

"Rogue, NOW!" He knew he wasn't entirely out of the danger zone as he called out, but he figured he had the time to make it to a cluster of very stable-looking, heavy chunks of granite.

He must have forgotten to multiply by the root of 17.

He glanced back in time to see Rogue shoot from the rocks as if spat, snagging Jean under the armpits, and with a cry of pain Jean released her grip on the rocks. A much greater part of the mountain than Scott had anticipated shuddered, and with a groan the mountain began to run once more. The rocks beneath his feet began trembling, and he leapt for the larger boulders, not quite making it. He felt his knee split as it came in contact with a very sharp piece of granite, and then he was down, and rocks and dirt played over him, filling his mouth, choking him. His fingers found a very strong handhold, and he hung on with all of his strength as a not insignificant part of the mountain face passed within a foot of him, pelting him with shrapnel. A particularly spiteful piece of bedrock bit into his hand sharply, cutting deep, possibly into a ligament. He didn't flinch, waiting for the mountain to stop moving, waiting for the ringing to stop.

It was over surprisingly quickly, silent save the hiss of dust and small pebbles as they cascaded down the mountainside. He shook his head sharply, hacking, feet slipping on loose rock before finding the steadier material beneath it.

#Scott! Are you -#

*Fine. Nathan, is he --*

#He's alive. Hank's getting him into the plane now.#

Scott shook the dust from his visor, cursing as he balled his injured hand into a fist. His middle finger refused to curl all the way, a sharp stab of pain his only reward from trying. Definitely hit something, possibly a nerve, no time to worry about it. 

He twisted, now facing the plane instead of the mountain, noticing a very strange sensation as the material beneath his heel ground into the rock at his swivel. He moved it quickly, finding the smallest swatch of fabric on the crag he'd been standing on.

Curious, he leaned down, tried to pick it up.

He pulled almost three inches of it up before it stopped, and, tug as he might, it remained firmly wedged.

More curious, he clambered down several feet, eyeing the dust-stained cloth. Beneath the dirt, it was a brilliant shade of red, and very thick, a strange fabric, with a sheer, soft quality, almost like --

Almost like their uniforms, made of spandex and unstable molecules.

But Apocalypse didn't wear red. In fact, the only mutant powerful enough and likely enough to have caused this and had a red cape was --

Was Magneto.

Oh my lord... "Logan! Rogue!"

His injured hand screamed in protest as he tried to pull at the top rock, shifting it to his left to keep it from knocking more of the unstable right side down. That surely would have shifted the man, probably for the worse, they'd have to get him out of there immediately, assuming --

Assuming he was still alive.

Rogue beat Logan there, tossing aside the granite like it was a basketball, and the layer below it, tilting it up like the door to a tornado shelter or a coffin. More of the red cape was visible, in a small pocket mostly filled with loose dirt and rocks. Scott shoveled them away, using both hands, almost digging dog style as Logan puffed up beside him.

"Well, goddamn it all," the mutant growled after a second, with surprising hostility, and he began working as feverishly as Scott, pulling the smaller rocks off, revealing shining, dented armor. 

But not red and purple. This armor was silver as a newly minted dime, cool to the touch.

Rogue continued to hold the rock in place, keeping more from sliding into the hole as Logan and Scott grabbed the arm, Scott's good hand digging and moving rocks, finally finding the head, and supporting it as they hauled him out.

Ever so gently, they laid the man down on a somewhat smooth patch in the rocks, and Scott, hands completely steady, pulled back the not unfamiliar helmet to reveal an almost unblemished face, a perfect mirror of the one struggling to survive in the bowels of the Blackbird.

#Scott, what -- #

"Stryfe," Scott whispered aloud, voice curiously empty, and then his fingers found the hot neck, and the shallow, weak pulse that still defiantly pumped blood around the armored, battered body. 

The man wasn't breathing.

"Rogue, get the other stretcher. Move! Logan, get this armor off him, it's too damn heavy --" And without another word, Scott lowered his mouth to the blue-tinged lips below him, puffed life into a body quickly fading.

* * * * * * *


	2. Part 2

_Disclaimer: The characters and universe belong to Marvel Comics. No money is being made from this endeavor. The story is co-plotted and co-written by Mitai, Mel, and Persephone. Please do not archive, pop-up, or MST without permission._

**Ashes of Chaos: Break of Dawn  
by Jaya Mitai, Mel, and Persephone**

Part 2

The virus attached itself somewhat awkwardly to the reinforced cell membrane, not able to cling with its usual tenacity, and she jumped, startled, as the phone chirped softly at her side. As usual, she ignored it, taking a swig of lukewarm coffee before returning her eyes to the play of death. The virus hadn't attached properly; it had fallen off mid-transfer, spilling its precious cargo of death into the plasma, where it would be harmless, reabsorbed by the body.

Quickly, experience quelling her excitement, she centered the viewer on another cell, this one with a virus attaching itself rather solidly despite the slippery, thick cell membrane. It began its push through the thickened surface, and Moira MacTaggart watched with interest as nothing penetrated the stained cell.

"Mum," the soft voice rang out over the intercom, "Phone call fur ye. Mister Summers."

A single glance was spared at her wristwatch, and a second more passed before she realized it was in timer mode and spared the other hand to press the right, black button twice. Then she glanced back into the microscope, a new type entirely that could display the cells and virus at once, high magnification, and live. Part of her mind calculated the time on the eastern United States seaboard even as her hand reached for the phone, finding her mug instead. Her eyes stayed glued to the microscope as she groped around. Small, cylindrical -- pen. Flat, smooth -- paper. Round, cold -- vial of plasma. Kinked, curled -- DNA. She followed it up until she found the receiver, picking it up noisily from the cradle.

The virus had not yet penetrated the cell.

It was impossible to bring the phone to her ear and stare into the microscope at the same time, and after one more look, she set the video to on, watching the cell in a small television screen as she settled back more comfortably into the chair and raised the receiver.

"Evening, Scott, what can A do for ye?" She winced a bit as she saw the cell membrane begin to give.

"Your landing strip still in working order?" The transmission was fuzzy, almost like a radio broadcast rather than digital, and she pulled more of her attention to the conversation, hand reflexively going to her mug.

"Aye...."

"I've got two down, they won't make it back to New York. Can you treat them?"

She turned sharply, clear eyes moving instantly to her medical supplies. She knew the beds were there, screaming cleanliness, sheets still changed twice a week, and she knew she still had a decent selection of blood plasma and platelets available in storage. She mentally checked her stocks in suture and gauze, and her medicine cabinet, finding them to be in fine order. She wasn't exhausted yet, but a several hour surgery would be pushing her limits -–

"Injuries?"

There was the slightest of pauses. "Extensive. Both were caught in a rockslide. Cable needs a transfusion, both are on respirators, broken bones, internal injuries, shock."

Cable? Wasn't he running with his own team these days? She'd never really kept up with the time traveler as she would have liked, but he had piqued her interest, after showing up the way he had.

"A have the resources tae handle tha', but nae th' people. Is McCoy wi' ye?"

"Yes. He's got one of them stabilized."

Henry McCoy was a scientist before a surgeon, but he was skilled and would be invaluable. And with a list like that... Summers was right. They'd never survive the transatlantic flight.

"What's yuir ETA?"

There was another pause. "Fifteen minutes, maybe thirteen."

"A'll have Rahne oot tae greet ye. Bring them both tae th' main complex."

Scott agreed and hung up before Moira had the presence of mind to ask who the other man was. Probably one of Cable's new teammates, therefore a younger person, with a better chance at recovery. She got up from the stool swiftly, tossing back the remains of the coffee the way Wisdom might hard liquor, mind racing ahead as it took inventory of the precautions she'd have to take. Legacy would love to get a foothold in a person that badly injured.

As an afterthought, she turned back to the television screen, watching the discarded protein coat of the virus drift away into the plasma, the contents headed unerringly towards the nucleus of the perfectly healthy blood cell.

* * * * * * *

A quarter of an hour found Scott fighting to land the Blackbird as smoothly as possible on the windswept runway, decelerating carefully on the well-kept but slick blacktop. Weather on Muir was different from that any other place on the planet. It was either absolutely perfect, or absolutely hellish. 

And, of course, this morning it had chosen to be the latter.

Once he had the plane down to the taxi speed he brought her around, towards the small but sufficient hangar and the single figure standing in the well-lit structure, waiting for them.

He checked the fuel gauge as he brought the 'bird to a halt. He'd called ahead to Xavier, telling him they might not be returning today, and discovered Charles had already made arrangements that the Blackbird would be refueled in France before they made the flight back. They had roughly an eight of a tank left, and getting to Paris would be pushing it. He set the engines on cool down/shutdown and climbed out of the cockpit, assisting Gambit and leaving Logan to help Rogue. Hank ran back and forth between the two, making sure they were both still breathing after being removed from the respirators.

Jean went out and hugged Rahne, very briefly. "You're looking well," she managed over the wind, and Rahne tilted her head before smiling at the distraught redhead and then motioning. Without word the team of X-Men and their precious burden followed her out of the weather and into the warmth and relative quiet of the main complex.

Moira was there instantly, the shorter, auburn-haired woman darting between the two, only her eyes widening as she looked on the faces of her two patients, both partially obscured by oxygen masks.

"A take it ye found them like this?"

"Yes," Scott managed tersely, and Hank handed her the charts while she hurried them down the hallway, already dressed for surgery, minus the gloves. The mask around her mouth didn't muffle her strong brogue, and they heard her clearly swearing under her breath as she pored over them.

"What aboot th' virus?"

Hank blinked a moment, then glanced at Cable. "It's completely out of control. Jean thinks she might be able to combat it herself, once he's stable, but until then -"

"It repairs th' damage as it goes?"

Hank blinked again, then nodded. "Yes, I believe so."

"He has th' worst of the injuries," she muttered, "but his twin seems tae be worse off. How long was Stryfe wi'oot air?"

This time Scott spoke, voice strained. "We have no way of knowing. I think it was no more than five minutes, he had a pulse when we found him."

Moira shook her head, hipchecking the double doors to the surgical theater open, glancing with brief annoyance at Scott's still-bleeding hand before back at the charts. Inside, the surgery lights were already on and warming up, brightening the room almost cheerfully, the metallic equipment within sparkling. "A cannae tell which tae treat first," she finally admitted. "Hank, how much d'ye remember o' traditional medicine? We may have tae work on both at once."

Day Two

Scott woke with a start, just managing to quell his sudden impulse to sneeze as he realized the cause of that urge was the soft, red hair attached to his exhaustedly sleeping wife. She lay against him, head buried in his shoulder and chest, dry tear tracks staining the small amount of base still on her face. He wasn't quite sure what it was, but almost all the X-women applied a small amount of makeup before going into combat.

He had the feeling that, if he asked, they'd tell him it was warpaint.

He moved as little as possible, eyes roving the walls in search of a clock. Not finding one, he lifted his left arm up slowly, glancing at his watch. 4:42 AM eastern standard time. Which made it a good five hours later here, at least, and they'd arrived at around 2:00 PM by his watch, which meant --

Which meant that Moira had been in surgery all night, if she still _was_ in surgery, and if he remembered anything, it was that the woman rarely slept at night. So they might not have disrupted her usual sleep patterns much, but it still must have been exhausting, however irregular her usual hours....

And suddenly the lack of clocks in the room made absolute, perfect sense. Why waste the electricity? Moira could hardly care less what time it was.

The door to Scott's immediate right opened softly, and Rahne, in human form, crept in quietly, peering at him, unsure if he was awake beneath the visor that covered his eyes. Belatedly he realized the cause of the hesitation, and spoke softly.

"I'm awake," he half-whispered, and her smile was slight and sincere. She had brought two steaming mugs of coffee with her, and she set them on the small, artificial wood table beside him in the makeshift waiting room nearly silently. 

"Mum said tae tell ye she's oot o' surgery, an' both yer -- th' men ye brought pulled through." She blushed slightly, looking like she felt awkward as she continued in a near whisper. "She's sleepin' now, A dinnae ken when she'll be oop again, but A ken Dr. McCoy hasnae gone tae bed yet. Do ye want tae see him?"

To see Hank. Not to see his... sons. She was right, of course, whether or not he wanted to publicly admit it, Stryfe was as much his son as Nathan in blood. 

In spirit was another matter entirely.

"Yes, thank you, Rahne. I hope you got some sleep yourself?"

She smiled slightly. "Nay, A've been learnin' tae keep Mum's hours. Only way tae make sure th' woman eats."

Scott allowed a small smile to touch his lips. "Thank you, Rahne. Tell Hank I'll be there in a moment."

She nodded and padded quietly out of the room, careful not to let the door slam. Scott contemplated waking his wife, wondering if she'd sleep through his moving. Deciding she'd wake up, and wake up cranky at finding he intended to leave her, he brought up his right hand, his shoulder rolling as his hand found her hair, stroked it gently. He regretted the motion instantly as his hand, until that point just uncomfortably aching, screamed in protest, and he stilled it with a mental curse, untensing his shoulder with effort. He should have seen to it; it had been foolish of him to have fallen asleep without at least a cursory bandaging --

"Jean?"

The slightest of moans came from that relaxed face, and then her eyes tightened as more awareness seeped in, and his heart reacted instinctively to it, drawing her closer.

"They're out of surgery now, Hank wants to give us an update."

She leaned off him quickly with the deep sigh of a waking person, and Scott twisted, stretching his aching back and picking up one of the mugs, giving it to her. She stretched slowly and then took it, sniffing it suspiciously. 

"Did Moira make this?" Without waiting for an answer, she took a sip, eyebrow raising in contemplation as she stood. "No, she didn't. Where's Hank?" 

"You'd better sit back down, my friend," the mutant in question advised as he came through the door Rahne had left not a minute before, carrying a small plastic tray. His blue fur was mostly covered by the light blue scrubs, the haircap and mask hiding most of his face. To top off the strange picture, his feet were in huge, light blue static-boots, and a surgeon's portable light, like a miner's helmet beam, was placed around his forehead, held in place by the black plastic band. Jean sat back down slowly as Hank dragged a stool before Scott, plopping on it tiredly and placing the tray on the table beside him.

"Scott, let me see your hand."

Scott did, quite obediently, and Hank swore softly as he inspected it. "Why didn't you tell me about this?" Almost to himself, he kept grumbling. "Lucky Moira mentioned in on her way out, it could have become infected hours ago, don't know when to say enough's enough --"

"Hank."

He looked up, haggard and blue eyes strained. "What? Ah, yes. Cable and Stryfe." After dabbing the hand gently with alcohol, his own blue paws in gloves and still steady, he began introducing a stinging local anesthetic to the site. His voice was extremely detached, very professional. "Nathan is stable, off the respirator. The virus has taken almost his entire left side. It appears to be halting, whether Nathan is controlling it or it's simply taking a breather isn't clear." He took a breath. "However, it seems to be avoiding his heart, surrounding it instead. If the virus starts spreading again, it could begin to constrict the heart."

Jean tensed, already starting to move, and Hank put out his other hand, stilling her. "It isn't a danger at the moment, I'm more worried about his lower abdomen." He paused a bit, almost seeming to gather resolve as he took another deep breath, shaking his head slightly as he handled Scott's hand. "His liver and right kidney appear to be failing. We'll know in the next few hours if it was just the anesthetic; they may begin functioning again on their own.

"His small intestines took a lot of trauma. We had to remove about a foot, and clots in the rest may have to be removed with further surgery. As of now, he's on a dialysis machine, oxygen, and we're still dripping in the blood you so graciously donated --" and he spared a glance at Scott before jabbing the needle in even further, a sharp sting before a cool numbness spreading through his hand. Hank dropped the needle in favor of an alcohol dipped Q-Tip, and began to poke into the wound.

"Will he die?" Jean's voice was strangely empty, hollow, her hands white around the coffee mug, and Scott wondered at his own relaxed pose. He must not be completely awake, he somehow couldn't manage to feel panic at Hank's words. Major organ failure. Threat of the T-O finishing him off right here. Not to mention the coma, telepathically induced, something that would take every bit of Jean's skill to repair.

Hank sighed, adjusting the light on his forehead as he grabbed the small forceps.

"I don't know, Jean." He paused again, huge, sharp canines coming out to bite his lower lip gently as he carefully maneuvered a piece of rock out of Scott's hand. "He most certainly would have passed on to another plane of existence before we returned to the mansion, and if his organs refuse to function... if we had the Shi'ar medunit back home, it wouldn't be a question, but --" He broke off, carefully wiping off the piece of debris before poking further into the gash. "We'll know in a few days. I wish I could give you more reassurance --" 

"What about Stryfe?" Scott almost winced at his own absolutely emotionless voice, but Hank didn't seem to notice.

"Stryfe is doing a bit better. He still isn't breathing on his own, but he didn't have quite the extensive damage that Nathan suffered, I assume because of his armor." He fished another piece of dirt out of the wound. "However, what he did suffer is far more severe. The weight of the pressing rocks forced a vertebra out of place, effectively crushing the spinal membrane, cutting it off as a broken bone might cut off an artery. There was no exchange of liquids for probably eight hours, little to no oxygen to those nerves. We're flushing it, but there's been widespread swelling that is showing no signs of remission, as well as undeterminable nerve damage.... I believe Stryfe may be confined to bed for the rest of his life, and it may be a markedly abbreviated one."

Hank seemed satisfied that he had fished out all the pieces of the mountain, and sprayed something in the wound, leaving it for a moment as he met their eyes.

"Furthermore, a CAT scan revealed hemorrhaging in Stryfe's frontal lobe. Not much, but it may be an indication that his mental abilities are permanently damaged."

"He burned himself out?" Jean's voice was much more animated than Scott's, her eyes surprisingly soft, considering the subject matter.

"I'm not a telepath, but the damage is similar in many respects to the reported physical indications of telepathic burnout, yes. Furthermore, Moira says she's seen like damage, much more severe, in two of... Kevin's hosts." Hank dropped his eyes back to the wound in Scott's right hand.

"You've clipped a ligament and a nerve cluster, and stitching it now might foster an abscess. I'm going to dress this, and we'll leave it for a week, to heal on its own. After that, I suspect surgery will be necessary to remove scar tissue and give you back the use of your...." He eyed the hand a moment. "Middle finger."

All three looked up as one, and between them managed a single smile.

* * * * * * *

"Ma'am?"

She had to keep looking, he had to be there. "Nathan? Nate, answer me!"

The hall was long, metallic, and empty, not ending, just growing smaller and smaller as it stretched forever into the black and white distance. Even now, it still rang with the whisper of that terrible scream, still trembled with a terror she had rarely felt in this place. The hall grew longer by the second; she felt as though she were running backwards as it stretched forever before her. Her footsteps were absolutely silent; she couldn't even hear her own frantic, rapid breathing, just the echo of that agonized yell.

I'm here, Nate, I'm here, for the love of God, Nate, tell me where you are!

"Dom?"

But... that sounded like Sam....

"Ma'am?"

Domino opened her eyes with effort, her eyelashes sticking together with a gummy substance, and squeezed them shut against the intruding light. The hallway, the scream was gone.

And the link was silent as a stillborn infant. 

"Domino? Are yah all right?"

She took a deep breath, bringing a hand up to shade herself from the light of the medbay, squinting as much as she could as she pried her eyes open again. She could make out Sam reaching up to turn the light away from her, James beside him, looking concerned. Shatterstar was to her right, and Tabitha paced behind him, clasping her hands and smiling tremulously as Domino met her eyes.

Why am I in the medbay?

Sam helped her sit up, and she blinked several times in the dimmer room, shaking her head, aware of an ache not unlike a migraine pounding behind her eyes. She was still in the jeans and tanktop she'd been wearing after session, her boots were gone, socked toes wiggling as she made sure she had all her parts. Her hair was clinging a bit to her forehead, and she wiped the sweat from it, surprised at how hot she felt.

"Sam? What --"

"You collapsed, ma'am, and you've been unconscious for almost a day," James said, surprisingly softly.

"Had us worried there, for a while," Sam added, blinking those huge eyes twice before reaching out and taking her chin, tilting her head up, staring into her eyes. She pulled back, surprised, and he blushed slightly.

"Wanted tah make sure you weren't concussed," he said, by way of explanation. "Y'nose was bleedin' pretty bad for a while."

Nosebleed? Very dimly, the hallway came back, the strange dream...

#Nate?# she sent out tentatively. They weren't speaking, not since he had left, but surely he'd answer her, surely he wouldn't be _that _much of a stubborn ass. She sent her concern down the link with his name, and waited for a response.

Nothing.

#Nate, if you can hear me, you damn well better answer,# she snapped, as loudly as she dared, eyes narrowing. Sam looked at her, not at all surprised to see her confusion turn to irritation so obviously, and Tabitha came around from behind Domino, a mug held in her outstretched hands. Domino ignored them. 

#Dammit, Nate! Answer me!#

Silence. More than silence. She felt like she was talking to a dial tone, that no one was even there on the other end to listen.

Like no one was there.

"Shit, no," she moaned under her breath, and was up and almost out the door before she realized her legs weren't going to support her. Rictor caught her not ungently around the waist.

"Whoa, Dom, where'd'yah think --"

The phone rang, blinking innocently on the wall.

* * * * * * *

Scott nodded to Moira as he walked in, carrying her covered plate in his right hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

"You missed dinner," he said, his voice hushed, as if afraid to wake the other occupant of the room, as if anything as simple as his voice would be equal to the task.

Moira pinched the bridge of her nose and scrunched her face up, holding it for a second before relaxing her facial muscles. An almost fragile-looking hand, attached to an equally frail-appearing wrist reached out and took the plate, placing it on the counter before turning back to her charts.

"Thank ye, Scott."

It wasn't exactly a dismissal, but it was hardly an invitation for conversation, and Scott found himself once more drawn to simply _looking _at Moira.

She was thinner than last he'd seen her, even bundled in a cotton sweater and labcoat, her khakis baggy; he could see the outline of her frame, almost painfully thin. Her face was more lined, thinner without being haggard, her emerald eyes somehow darker than they used to be, but still absolutely clear. Her hair, cut short for convenience, was still immaculately combed but graying more by the day, and she obviously couldn't be bothered to dye it. Her hands were steady as they shuffled through multiple x-rays, fingers nimble and nails strong, unpainted as they drummed a staccato rhythm on the countertop.

"A can't tell a thing from this," she grumbled half to herself, eyeing a spinal x-ray blurred by what he assumed was swelling around the column itself. "Impossible tae tell th' damage."

"That's...."

"Stryfe," she muttered, sticking it on the running light, parallel to the countertop, hanging another x-ray beside it, this one of a knee. "This is Cable's. Ye can see th' joint's out of place, it'll be a miracle if he can walk with th' ball as damaged as it is." She leaned forward, shoving her glasses up as a very steady finger traced a tiny black crack in the ball part of the joint, and followed it to an equally tiny crack in the cup, traveling nearly four inches into the tibia. "He's lost joint fluid, then. A cannae replace it; the joint will have tae be surgically reconstructed."

Beside that x-ray she put up a ribcage, broken bones obvious, as well as the pins she and Henry had inserted to keep them in place. "He cannae break them again, they're frail, an' he's askin' fur cancer this way. Marrow cannae replenish, they will grow back together poorly." Her finger followed Nathan's sternum downward, and she tapped it thoughtfully once before dropping her hand back to the counter, then picking up the mug of coffee, food untouched.

"His jaw is th' only part o' him that may heal decently," she growled, after several sips of the hot liquid. "He's too old tae be running around getting rocks dropped on him."

"You know Nate," Scott said softly after a moment, studying the damage done to Cable's chest. Four left ribs, all very high, all beside his heart. And the T-O was plainly visible, a huge white scar across him, stretching from his scapula across his left side. It looked even worse internally than it did externally, and the thought sent an icicle into his stomach as painful as a blade. How much more could the virus spread before it became a threat to his life? Was it already too far along for Nate to recover?

"Nae, that A dunnae," she murmured back in response. "A ken o' his mission, and A expect he ken it be soon? That's why he was oot alone at th' base?"

Scott didn't reply. Nate had dropped out of communication shortly before the entire affair with the Shadow King and the astral plane, and they'd heard from him briefly afterwards, just a communication to let them know he was alive and kicking before he disappeared. A few weeks ago they'd heard by the grapevine he'd come back briefly, then had a argument with Domino and took off. 

Jean was calling the woman now -- it had only been fifteen minutes ago either one of them had thought to tell her. She probably knew, and may have even taken damage from Nate's scream, if they still had the psychic rapport Cable had accidentally formed with her. He wondered if Domino would make it down in time --

Of course she will, because Nathan isn't going to die, he informed the logical part of his mind, watching Moira still studying the x-rays.

"A gave Jean permission tae work on th' virus," Moira murmured consideringly after several minutes of silence. "Tell her I changed me mind."

Scott almost choked. "Excuse me?"

"Th' virus will repair more o' th' damage than Cable's body can. We'll have tae watch its progress, but it gives Cable th' advantage of swifter, more complete healing."

"It's already --"

"A ken the risks, Scott. Thank ye fur th' food."

Day Three

Jean's eyes flickered beneath her closed eyelids, eyebrows bunched together in concentration as her fingers moved in slow, circular patterns, one on her own temple, and one on her son's. She didn't know if it really helped the work, but even in the beginning of her training, Charles had confided that many telepaths often found touch greatly eased any very strenuous telepathic activity.

And she suspected her fingers were rubbing because her head was killing her.

It was a good sort of pain, though, an honest ache she wouldn't have traded with the sweetest pleasure as her eyes opened slowly, like a morning glory finally sensing the first rays of sunlight after the seemingly endless shadow of night.

He was sleeping. Not in a coma, not in some sort of terrible, eternal nightmare. He was sleeping. 

Smiling a little, surprised at her shaking hand, she reached out and stroked his cheek, swollen and bruised, traced the cut spanning his forehead, requiring stitches in three or four places. She half wished he'd wake with the gentle touch, but he didn't, instead if anything settling into a more comfortable, deeper restful state, as if he knew the worst was over, as if he thought he could afford to treat himself to the luxury of carefree, abandoned sleep. 

She'd watched him sleep as a child, so many hours. She had kept expecting each night to be their last, kept expecting never again to have the opportunity to watch his little mouth work soundlessly as he talked in his dreams, or his little fingers curl into fists as he snuggled deeper into his father's warm side. He had the cutest nose as a little boy, and it really hadn't changed much over the years, only now his face had grown into it, and it looked like it had been broken a few times, but skillfully set.

It wasn't any different watching him now from how it had been those less than restful nights, fighting the T-O even in his sleep, struggling against the virus and the pain it was causing him and crying tears that broke her heart, kept her up exhausting long hours before dawn, blocking the pain away to give him a few hours' relief from it.

Never, even as a child, could he ever, truly sleep the sleep of one.

He could now. The damage had been repaired, the loop of torture successfully broken, the threads of thoughts woven back together, bit by bit. He was starting to stabilize the T-O all on his own, the now automatic defense kicking in as his strength flowed back as surely as the blood his father had given to save his life. His body wasn't whole, but at least now his mind was, and not undamaged, but un_broken_. It had taken everything she possessed, it had taken all her skill and energy and determination and _being_, but she'd done it.

And now he was going to just lie there and sleep! Some thanks, son, she thought fondly, not sure he'd heard her till she saw the faintest quirk on those slightly bruised lips. Oh, Nate... he was such a mess. So many torn muscles and tendons, so much damage. Even with the organs working on their own, even with the virus halted, if not beaten back, he was still dancing precariously, the moonlight reflecting in his clean but limp silvering hair. They wouldn't know if he would walk again, not with that knee like it was. Joint fluid simply can't be replaced, and a knee replacement in this condition was out of the question, at least for now. He had developed pneumonia on top of everything else, a raging fever that was more troubling than any other symptom, requiring a draining tube, a clear plastic lead that constantly carried the pus-like ooze from him. His chest was the most frightening part to look at, covered in one, impossibly colored bruise, broken ribs mending so slowly.

His age was interfering, that she knew. He was on calcium supplements among other things, but Moira warned that he simply couldn't keep breaking bones like he was, even after giving the T-O almost a day to take over the ribs on his left side, repairing them. Nathan wasn't a child anymore, no matter how he looked when asleep, and he was getting too old to take injuries like this and bounce back. He almost _hadn't_--

A quick mindbrush revealed he was still sleeping, dreamlessly, and she allowed the temporary mindlink to slowly fade, drifting away rather than cutting, or anything so abrupt or destructive. Once it was gone, she leaned back, taking a deep breath, surprised at the stiffness in her back and neck. 

"Ye finished? A was beginning tae think A'd have tae wake ye and drag ye off."

Jean opened her eyes and glanced blearily around for a clock, wondering how much time had passed. Not finding one, she blinked, then tried to focus surprisingly strained eyes on her small watch.

"Ye were in a trance fur th' better part of nine hours," Moira said softly, coming into the patient section of the labs, proffering an insulated mug of cold water. "Beginning tae think maybe ye needed some help."

"He's... sleeping, I think," she finally said, after she'd downed the entire mug and found herself wishing for more. "I've done all I can -- it's up to him, now. I felt him take control of the virus from me; I think he's aware enough to keep it in check himself." She really was too tired to sound that deliriously happy, but her heart was beating fast, and her stomach felt surprisingly light. Despite his condition, he'd made such improvements. He was halfway out of the woods. Organs working, T-O under control, and out of that blasted coma....

"Aye, that A can see," Moira murmured, with no small satisfaction herself, as she analyzed the activity of his brain. "Pretty close tae what it used t'look like. Ye've done a fine job."

"Nine hours? I certainly hope so." She got off the stool carefully, the light feeling leaving her suddenly weak in the knees. Nine hours. She should be in a coma herself. Then again, when Scott had had the nanobomb, she'd kept him together for nearly as long --

She had made it all the way to the door before she realized her knees simply weren't going to make the journey to bed unless she gave them a few minutes to think about it.

* * * * * * *

He had the distinct impression that he'd just been teased.

It wasn't so much that, that woke him, but the remnants of a headache and the terror he still remembered, in wisps. The kids, all lying dead in the rubble, Clansmen beside them, and high above on his carrier, Stryfe dangled Domino over air, so triumphant as he released her and she fell -- but that was just a nightmare. A simple dream. A sharp intake of breath somewhere to his right attracted his attention, bringing him more awake.

"Jean, are ye all right? We'd better sit ye down for a wee bit, A'll get ye some more water...." 

He knew that accent. It was familiar in the way that Jean's mannerisms had been, before he'd known she was Redd. Familiar in that 'You _should _know who that person is, you idiot!' sort of way. Of course. Moira MacTaggart, the first person he'd spent any time with after coming to this century.

Which meant that he'd survived the landslide. And if he was here, instead of back in New York --

Then he probably had extensive injuries, and wouldn't have survived the trip home. He tried twitching his arms and legs, and they did twitch, each complaining bitterly of the movement. The virus, oh, the flonqing virus had spread everywhere, it was going to take weeks to get it back under control --

Was his telekinesis working? He thought so; experimentally, Nathan shoved the virus, feeling the weakness of the motion but also the familiar ache of the virus refusing to move. And telepathy.... 

He reached around, feeling the limitation of his scan. Instead of going for Jean, he tried to find Moira. He'd heard her, off to his left, and thought that way--

And gasped at the mind he found there.

Without thinking, he let his eyes fly open, not bothering to worry about his surroundings and the frightening amount of medical equipment around him as his head fell to the side, and took in the man in a bed beside him, eyes closed, and _completely uncollared._

Quick as thought Nate gathered as much telepathy as he had, in a single attack against Stryfe.

* * * * * * *


	3. Part 3

_Disclaimer: The characters and universe belong to Marvel Comics. No money is being made from this endeavor. The story is co-plotted and co-written by Mitai, Mel, and Persephone. Please do not archive, pop-up, or MST without permission._

**Ashes of Chaos: Break of Dawn  
by Jaya Mitai, Mel, and Persephone**

Part 3

Jean looked up sharply as Nathan's head turned, and she sensed the attack even as Stryfe's throat tensed, a whimper coming from somewhere deep in his chest as the sudden wave of pain brought him to semi-consciousness. She stumbled off the stool even as Moira whirled from the sink, and staggered over to Nathan's bed, curbing his attack with effort.

"Nathan, no!"

Cable was only half-awake, already exhausted from that very gentle attack. "Get a... collar on him... oath, he's --"

Her hands found his face, turned it towards her. "He isn't going to hurt anyone, Nathan. He's burned out. It's all right, Nate, calm down...."

Nathan had slipped back into a light sleep before half the words had left her lips, and she trailed off as the tight muscles of his cheeks and jaw relaxed, slowly. Moira had come back over, and was trying to hold Stryfe still as he weakly tossed his head back and forth, as if to shake off the pain. 

"Jean, A dunnae approve o' his blood pressure, can ye nae do something?" The smaller woman leaned over Stryfe to her supply of painkillers as Jean gathered her resolve and managed to keep her feet as she headed towards Stryfe.

* * * * * * *

He shuddered, hoping the moan wasn't audible as pain exploded in his head, telepathically induced, a flavor he recognized even as he tried desperately to raise some sort of defense. He didn't have the feeling of being still buried, though he clearly remembered the panic of not being able to breathe. So he must have been freed, or at least managed to crawl out on his own –

Another moan crawled from him as he attempted to shield, shards of pain like hot sand on his mind, grating and grinding with a fine, precise agony so unbearable he stopped, surrendering to whatever Cable had in store for him, what tortures his brother had come up with in their time apart.

Surprisingly, after the first wave of pain, the attack seemed to hesitate, not strong and sure and actually very disorganized, not attempting to put him in a memory loop, not attempting communication, merely... painful, and not unbearably so. Not as painful as trying to use his own telepathy to combat it.

Why wouldn't his telepathy work? Why couldn't he gather his thoughts, focus them? Terror built as he tried again and again, pain his only reward. He felt like shaking as the attack broke off abruptly, leaving him in limbo, unable to sense anyone, anything. Fear was not a feeling he was accustomed to, clenching his stomach most uncomfortably and making it hard to breathe, and he tried again to shield, with the same effect.

And then he heard her. "He isn't going to hurt anyone, Nathan." The voice was echoing, cold, without pity or remorse, a taunt so chilling it would have done Apocalypse proud. He couldn't open his eyes, but he had the impression of light beyond his eyelids. Not just any light. A yellow light, yet not sunlight. Firelight?

Phoenix-light?

Completely powerless to stop her, he stared as she approached him, eyes pools of fire, narrowed to slits as she gazed on him with a disgust and hatred so palpable he half fancied it was choking him. The Phoenix-fire surrounded her, licking hungrily at him as she sneered down on him from some unimaginable height.

"He's burned out..."

She said more, but he turned away with another cry, too frightened to look, too frightened to do more than curl into a tiny ball, only then aware that he was naked, without armor or weapons, absolutely helpless as she advanced.

And then he felt her in his mind.

* * * * * * *

Jean paled so swiftly that Moira took her arm with concern, steadying her as she swayed briefly before her own hand moved to anchor her to the bed. 

"Did he hurt Stryfe?"

Jean seemed distant, and gradually the terrible, low, pained sounds from the man on the bed ceased, and after a moment the tosses of that snowy head below them became less frantic, less emphatic, and soon had stilled altogether.

Moira looked briefly annoyed as Jean didn't answer her, but the expression faded quickly as his blood pressure settled to a more normal level. "Well, ye did soomthing." She reached over to Jean's wrist, curiously, and Jean seemed to snap out of it, glancing at her as thought she'd never seen the doctor before.

"He was terrified of me," she almost whispered, disbelievingly. "He was absolutely terrified."

* * * * * * *

Day Four

"Hey, Nate."

He stirred slightly, trying to place that voice. Definitely someone he knew, a very familiar voice.

Someone took his hand. He felt them squeeze it, barely, and he tried to answer back, but after a moment the hand was patted and simply held, so he assumed it hadn't worked. He was so tired, needed sleep so desperately he could taste it, but he wasn't going to give in until he figured out who that was.

"Hey, sir," another voice, softer, with an accent that he hadn't heard in a long time. Also very familiar. Wasn't the same person, he could tell that, and it wasn't Redd, or Moira, so who...?

"When they told you you'd move mountains, Nate, I don't think they meant literally," the first voice said a bit teasingly, but there was a catch in it, something that almost choked the voice, and he had the urge to reach out and hug this female, her name was on the tip of his tongue -

Besides, he hadn't moved the mountain. His shadow had. He wondered where the mountain was now. Where do mountains go when they die? He'd never seen one on the astral plane before....

"We got in last night," the voice continued. "Hit some rough weather and delayed in Scotland. Came the rest of the way by boat. I know how much you love boats."

Oath, he hated boats. The ocean was a very beautiful thing, but not when you were floating on it. Or, even flonqing worse, _in_ it.

"Nate, you could wake up and at least _look_ at me." There was more behind that teasing, now, a real plea, and a surprising reluctance, like she didn't want to show that kind of emotion.

Dom had always had a hard time with that. Then again, so had he - Dom.

That was Dom!

He did try to crack an eye open, and he managed it, just barely, not squinting or blinking at the lights, knowing that if he did, he'd never get the eye open again. His sight was still blurry; he made out the smooth pale of her face, the black blur that made up the spot around her eye, the sparkle of a diamond, on the lowest edge.

She had a gem inlaid into her cheek? No, that wasn't Dom's style, but... neither was crying.

A mop of towheaded boy behind her caught his attention. That was... Sam, yes, that's who that was. For a second, it could have been Tyler...

His eye reached up hands of its own and pulled down his eyelid like one would a windowshade, but he wasn't ready, flonq it! Dimly, he reached out on instinct, not really remembering the link but knowing it was there, knowing that Dom needed some sort of reassurance.

It seemed fitting she'd cry in front of Sam, but why was she crying at all? He felt better than he had in a long time, it was just this flonqing exhaustion. He tried to send reassurance to her, but his irritation at his inability to stay awake tainted it, and he sighed mentally as he tried to unravel it, falling asleep midway.

* * * * * * *

Domino found her steps to be irritatingly rhythmic as they marched away under the close glare of MacTaggart. Another ten minutes with him wouldn't have hurt a thing; it wasn't like he even knew she was there, perhaps on the most basic level –

Her steps faltered as soon as the doctor ducked back into the main lab, and she found herself suddenly leaning against the cool plaster walls, hair tickling the back of her neck. Oh, Nate.... She was glad she hadn't seen him on the respirator, but even having sneaked a glimpse at that chart....

"Ma'am?" Sam's voice cut through her thoughts, very gentle, hesitant. He probably didn't know what to do, she thought with a grim smile. She'd lost it and almost bawled like a kid, and he was close enough to it himself. Trying to be strong for her. Utterly cute, actually, but she couldn't appreciate it now.

"I'll be up in a second, Sam. Go on up, give the team a call."

He left her very reluctantly, soft-soled hiking boots not making a sound as the inseams of his jeans scraped softly, the sound gradually fading to the elevator at the end of the hall. It hissed open and closed, and here there was silence, absolute quiet.

She was almost afraid she'd open her eyes and see the never-ending, mono-colored hallway, and hear the echo of that scream.

The back of her head cooled against the wall, bringing her attention to the tension in her scalp, neck and shoulders. He'd nearly bought it, this time. An hour, maybe two more and that would have been the last chapter in an exceedingly thick and violent volume. The glassy look in those eyes that hadn't really seen her, that tentative thought that didn't quite make sense before he slipped off into unconsciousness once more. The condition of his body that she could see. The equipment, the ten minute time limit with him. The blood still oozing from some of the worst of his gashes and the bag of blood, the second pint Scott had given him in almost twice as many days.

He'd almost died before, but he'd never taken injuries like that. He'd never been so far gone that she'd lost him, completely lost him, had only the structure of their link with no mind on the other end, she'd never heard that agony in his mental voice, she'd never -–

She'd never told him so many things, and that link, to which he clung so precariously, wasn't a substitute for some of the words that needed to be said.

The minutes dragged by, her body not moving though she was telling it it really needed to carry her someplace soft and flat. When it finally did start, her movements were surprisingly catlike, footsteps nigh silent on the accusing tiles, and the door they carried her through opened without a sound.

She added belatedly to her body that the soft and flat something had to be unoccupied, but it ignored her still, and carried her past the machinery, past the metal stand and to the side of the bed, and made her look down.

In the dim, with an oxygen line fed into his nose and his eyes closed in sleep or deeper, they looked exactly alike. Even down to the hand, with the plastic pulse-finger thingie attached to his index finger.

They looked just alike.

But they aren't, she thought simply, surprised at the numbness of the thought. Here was the man that looked just like Nate. It was like another version of him.

Of what he could have been.

It was her mind that told her body to move, and before she really had any concept of the consequences she'd already pulled her small, nine millimeter semi-automatic and leveled it at the nearly comatose Chaos-Bringer, finger tightening with a surety on the trigger normally reserved for missions –

And just as suddenly it relaxed, but she couldn't bring herself to lower the weapon.

He's helpless, this is murder –-

He wouldn't do the same to you in a heartbeat?

They look so much alike -–

This is STRYFE, woman! He's the reason Nate is almost _dead_ three doors down!

He's not a threat to anyone, he's burned out --

And that's going to stop him? Being limited to the primitive weapons of the times?

Maybe he can be contained, imprisoned...?

Maybe he can finish Nate off when Moira isn't babysitting him?

It didn't occur to her that she could quite possibly get kicked out of the facility or worse for murdering one of MacTaggart's patients. It didn't occur to her that killing Stryfe would destroy any chance of his revealing the cure to Legacy. Nothing occurred to her but the precise movement of the gun and how strong her wrist would have to be to compensate, and that there was no wind in the room, she was at point blank range, and there was no silencer, so Moira would hear it instantly.

The damage would be far too great for even her to repair.

"Just what do ye think yuir doin'?" a soft, Scottish lilt asked, very gently, from the silent doorway.

And Domino closed her eyes. It doesn't matter, you can get the shot off before she gets to you, her mind urged. She can't stop you unless you hesitate, you have to take the shot –-

"He's better off this way."

"Tha's nae yuir decision tae make, Domino."

"You said yourself he was crippled!" Her eyes remained closed, an effective barrier to the tears that appeared from nowhere, and the sudden thickening of her throat. "Do you think that will stop him? Do you _know_ what he is, what he's done?"

"It doesnae matter," the other answered, still very softly. "Ye don't want tae murder him, or ye wouldnae have hesitated as ye did. There's a chance A can help him–"

"He's a lunatic," Domino spat, eyes flashing open, looking once again on that impeccably perfect face, oblivious to the death waiting for him, only a heartbeat away. "He's a monster, Moira. He doesn't want your help."

"That isnae yuir decision," Moira repeated firmly, surprisingly much closer without audible movement. "A cannae allow ye tae do this, Domino. Put yuir weapon away and get some rest."

Domino found herself completely unable to lower the gun.

"Domino," Moira said, steel in her quiet voice. "Put down yuir weapon."

Domino didn't move. She could still get the shot off, she could end this entire debate once and for all, she could –-

She could protect Nathan. She could help him, just a little bit, maybe enough to get her a foothold into the mind that was shoving her further and further away as his Battle approached. Would he survive it, now? Would he be ready for the fight with Apocalypse? Or had Stryfe killed Nathan as surely as the External would, given the opportunity?

And then Moira, with surprising skill, simply took the gun from her rigid hands.

"A ken ye be worried for Cable's safety," she murmured, flicking the safety on the gun without looking at it and tucking it into her lab coat pocket.

"Jean's already made arrangements fur Nathan tae be taken tae Xavier's mansion as soon as it's safe tae move him. Stryfe will be kept here until A ken the extent of his injuries and an informed decision can be made aboot what tae do with him." She patted Domino's shoulder, not surprised at the tension there.

"Ye need some sleep an' a meal. Coom with me."

* * * * * * *


	4. Part 4

_Disclaimer: The characters and universe belong to Marvel Comics. No money is being made from this endeavor. The story is co-plotted and co-written by Mitai, Mel, and Persephone. Please do not archive, pop-up, or MST without permission._

**Ashes of Chaos: Break of Dawn  
by Jaya Mitai, Mel, and Persephone**

Part 4

He hung from the shackles without protest, chin resting on his bare chest, slick with sweat and blood. His entire body ached with an almost detached pain, one he was unaccustomed to but accepting at the present. Curiously, he had no desire whatsoever to move to ease the pain. Drenched locks of overgrown hair hung before his face in a curtain, the only mercy in the entire proceedings of his trial.

He couldn't see them, and he was glad of it.

It didn't really matter, the ruling. The judge kept insisting that it wasn't her choice to make, but Aliya was screaming against him anyway. Such fire, she had. She wasn't afraid of him.

She hated him, and her voice trembled with the magnitude of it.

"You said yourself he was crippled!" she screamed to the court, to the judge. Fate, that's who was presiding over this farce, and it was utterly poetic that Fate should be a woman with some sort of ghastly twentieth-century accent.

He could hear Aliya moving around, ever so faintly; she seemed near. He could almost sense her reaching out to him, her hand coming very close to his face -- whether to make him look on the jury or to strike him, he didn't know. He found his apathy toward the entire affair absolutely appalling, but... what else was there?

He was crippled. He knew it, knew that without the shackles he would not be able to stand, to support his weight. Phoenix had taken his powers, he remembered that; she'd come and taken them, and left him there, burning, screaming. And then he was here, and his only defense was silence.

"Do you think that will stop him? Do you _know_ what he is, what he's done?"

It was only right she was bitter, he allowed. After all, he had done it, he'd finally killed him. She was grieving, as any woman with a heart as hers had been should. She continued her argument, and he ceased listening. There wasn't much point.

He was crippled, helpless, broken. And Dayspring was dead. 

* * * * * * *

Moira leaned away from the charts, dropping the pen and working her fingers into her cramping right hand vigorously. So much information to put into these charts, so many tests run and results carefully measured. Hank was sitting across from her, on the other workbench in her extra lab, and he looked up, clear blue eyes glancing over his squarish spectacles.

"Why don't you take a break," he suggested kindly. "You've been scratching away for the better part of the day now, and I doubt duplicating what you already have backed up on your computer is worth your eyesight."

He himself was perched on a stool with perfect balance, a tribute both to the time he spent in that position and his mutant agility. Why was it that she constantly surrounded herself with mutants, she wondered. Did it ever even occur to them she was human? Not that it mattered one inkling to most of them, but did they never stop and think if perhaps she was jealous of the fact Dr. McCoy could perch without fatigue when sitting on a backless stool as he did would destroy her back entirely?

Not that _she_ put much thought into that, and all her chairs were perfectly comfortable, with backs. Just too small to accommodate his large frame.

"A'm almost done with these," she responded, glancing around and finding her mug empty. She blinked several times, easing the strain of staring at her own small, neat writing for hours on end, and leaned back for a good stretch. She braced her hands on the desk lip for extra leverage, bending backwards over the back of her chair before taking her arms and extending them over her head and back.

Years and years ago, in med school, she'd perfected the stretch -- but only after multiple spills, as wheeled chairs tended to react to her shifting weight by scooting out from underneath her. Clearly Hank expected this; she heard his startled, "Moira, be careful --" even as she extended further, not satisfied until every vertebra felt popped. Then she leaned back up and flashed him something close to a smirk.

"Ye are nae the only one with good balance, doctor," she said sweetly, then gave a mischievous grin at his slightly confused look. "A'm going tae get some coffee, can A get ye anything?"

"A few answers would be nice," he replied, taking off his spectacles and scrinching his face into something more than a bit ferocious-looking. "Do you have any deities in the kitchen?"

She leaned speculatively against the countertop, rolling her neck. "Not that A ken, and if ye look at them like that they'll likely leave anyway."

He straightened his face with a deadpan look, and she smiled. "What question are ye wrestling with? Cable's knee?"

He shook his head, stretching his arms behind him with an alarmingly loud **crack**! Perhaps not as fatigue-free as she had initially assumed. "Stryfe, actually," he admitted softly. They were alone in the lab, and the patients were on the other end of the hallway, but she didn't point that out, instead walking over to face him, arms crossed thoughtfully over her chest as she leaned a hip on the counter.

"What will become of him, ye mean?"

Hank nodded, tapping his pen thoughtfully on Cable's exceedingly long chart. "He'll be imprisoned, surely. More than likely in Xavier's mansion, for a while, and, while some attempt at therapy would certainly be made, I doubt he'd be receptive to it. He's... " Hank shook his head slowly. "From what I've heard, and what I know he's done, an irredeemable lunatic. But to lock him up, if he's physically or mentally crippled -- or both -- it just seems... not befitting." He was searching for the right words, his eyes intense and strangely sad. "The only other alternative I can think of is telepathic intervention, and that flirts with betraying every telepathic ideal Charles has ever insisted upon. Yet... I can see the necessity of it all. I just wish...."

"There was a better way," she finished quietly. "Aye, it seems a shame tae get him back tae health only tae take away the world."

Hank nodded, cracking a few knuckles before glancing back at the chart. "Ah, well. You are quite pleasant to the eye, so if you see any deities, tell them I'd like them to intervene in a case and to please contact me for discussion?"

"A'll check the cupboards an' see what they have tae say," she replied seriously, leaning off the counter and grabbing her mug on the way. He hadn't eaten much; she should probably dig up some food. Come to think of it, she was a little hungry... and the hard copy of Stryfe's case file could wait a bit. She wasn't expecting the server to explode anytime in the near future, and the tape the backup was stored on was safe in the lockbox.

Wouldn't be receptive. Her brain hung onto that phrase as she headed for the elevator, stopping and checking on her patients along the way. Cable's fever had dropped, the drugs doing their work, but his lungs sounded slightly worse, and she replaced the stethoscope over the I.V. stand with a frown. She couldn't risk another drainage tube, and she was pumping him with all the antibiotics his system could handle.

"A'm not losing ye tae some silly infection," she told him affectionately, slightly disappointed that his response consisted of a flickering of his eyelids, but no more. At least he was aware of her presence. Probably on a telepathic level, but it was something. The psychic damage had been repaired, but that didn't help the concussion one little bit.

She patted his cheek and headed across the hall, into the other patient room. After the first episode, she decided it would be wisest to keep Cable out of sight of Stryfe, at least until they were certain Nathan understood that Stryfe was no longer a threat.

Stryfe didn't regain consciousness as she checked his life signs manually, taking the time to pry open his eyelids and watch his pupils contract. Still sluggish -- despite that strange helmet of his, he had a concussion as well, and the damage to his nervous system had sent him into a sort of shock that could take, literally, weeks to recover from. The swelling had also crawled up the back of his neck, dangerously close to his brain stem -- had Scott moved him any more than he had, Stryfe would probably be in a coma. For all intents and purposes, he practically was.

He could wake up at any time, even now, but she highly doubted it. His life signs were stable, which was no small miracle, and she felt it safe to take him off the respirator tonight. See how he fared. It shouldn't be a problem.

Wouldn't be receptive to therapy, her mind whispered again, and she stared at him for a long, long time before she tucked the penlight in her labcoat pocket and headed thoughtfully for the elevator.

* * * * * * *

He couldn't see. 

He had been able to see, to hear, to sense comings and goings, he thought. He had seen the Phoenix come in wings of fire and sink her talons into his brain, heard his fate argued.... Nothing was clear, now. He frowned, wondering why the images were so vague, and the thought came to him that perhaps if he opened his eyes he could see them better. He strained, and his eyes opened.

And then he realized that he had been unable to see clearly because there had been nothing to see.

He stared at the ceiling. Already the ideas from before were fading, beginning to seem nonsensical and then slipping from his grasp. There had been... fire... the Phoenix? What would it have been doing here? He had felt his powers gone before he saw her... hadn't he? He had heard Aliya... but she was dead, or wouldn't exist for centuries, depending on your perspective, and at any rate shouldn't have been here. 

What had she said? How could he have thought...? He gave up; it was like trying to grasp water.

His eyes felt dry, and all he could see was still a ceiling. It wasn't a bad ceiling, but not particularly fascinating either. He blinked. His eyes opened again. That was good. Or was it?

The idea nagged at him that he should remember more clearly what he'd been thinking. He was a telepath. That meant an eidetic memory. He'd always remembered everything, even dreams, usually.

A dim, sandy memory of pain reminded him that he wasn't a telepath anymore, now, was he? Perhaps that was the problem.

No. That couldn't really be the case, could it? Without powers, what was he? He tried to "listen" for other minds. Nothing. It felt as if his brain might be numb. He tried harder, tried for a more active reading, and gasped at the burning...

No. Despair flooded him as he stopped. His powers must really be gone. Gone. Burned out. Bitter words, bitter fact.

He let his neck relax, let his head fall to one side. A colder fear began to creep upon him as he discovered that his body's lack of response hadn't been his imagination, either.

Cripple. Burned-out cripple.

Weak.

A brainfried, paralyzed clone. Not only weak, but nothing. Less than nothing.

He didn't know why he was bothering to keep his eyes open. He shut them, felt an odd drifting sensation, and hastily opened them again. Wall. A white blur at the corner of his vision, probably a pillow. Equipment. Medical equipment?

Primitive, of course, but not quite as much so as he would expect from the twentieth century.

Where WAS he, anyway?

Did it matter? Probably not. Dull agony of mind and body invited him away from consciousness. If he couldn't move, why could he feel? That wasn't fair at all.

Footsteps. Quiet but distinct.

He blinked again, more wearily, to clear glazed eyes, and a woman moved into his field of vision. He focused on her. White coat. Brown hair. Shiny eyes. No, those archaic devices known as eyeglasses, that made much more sense. A definite air of being the one in charge. He had always been good at recognizing that, an ability he had cultivated for the purpose of promptly deposing people from that position.

Somehow he didn't think that was going to work in this situation.

"A see ye're awake." What? That accent. Fate. No, that didn't make any sense. That geneticist, that was it, Moira MacTaggart.

"A'm Dr. MacTaggart. Ye're in the Muir Research Facility on Muir Island." He'd known who she was already, he thought with some irritation. As if he couldn't recognize her. Wasn't she a friend of Cable's, too?

But in that case, why was he in her base and still breathing? He puzzled over that for a moment, and determined sluggishly that she must have some reason. Perhaps she intended to put him on trial, or pick his brains regarding Legacy... It worried him in a vague way that it had required so much effort to reach such a simple conclusion.

She was talking again. The words didn't seem to mean much; he couldn't seem to decipher her pronunciation but assumed she was discussing whatever she planned to do with him. He suspected he didn't want to know -- after all, he couldn't stop her.

Legacy. His pet virus... yes, think about that. Did she feel it, he wondered. He let his eyes fall to her neck, then her wrists. No lesions; thin but not emaciated. He couldn't see her eyes clearly for the reflection on the glass, he recalled, so he didn't put forth the effort to look. She reached toward him, checked vital signs efficiently as she spoke more words that blurred ominously in his ears.

Her hands were, as far as he could tell, perfectly steady and she appeared energetic. Hardly wasted. Perhaps she enjoyed the fight as much as he had suspected. And there _he_ lay, under her cold ministrations, aching through and through and incapable of even a token resistance. His senses seemed to waver, an oddly silent roar wrapping his brain. The feeling of drift took him again with his next blink and the spur of panicked disorientation failed to shake him as exhaustion carried him into unconsciousness.

* * * * * * *

Moira sighed as her unexpected patient closed his eyes and passed out again. She could hardly expect much response; it was somewhat encouraging that he'd finally awakened at all. She watched him a few moments more. Naturally she couldn't know if her attempts at reassurance had had any effect -- but he had waked, at least, and should remain conscious longer as time went on.

* * * * * * *

Week One

When next Stryfe was aware of anything, it was the very removed feeling of something moving over him, like the slightest current of liquid over a man lying half in the water, half on the shores of a still lake. Upon opening his eyes, he was remotely surprised to find Moira looking over his form critically. He couldn't see his body, of course; he assumed it was still there, his only clue the constant, dull pain of muscles dimly screaming to be stretched, and a never-abating ache that throbbed over every inch.

Surely he still had all his limbs?

Since he couldn't move them to make sure, and he was too dazed to pick up his head and look, he contented himself with watching the movement of her eyes behind the antiquated glasses. He assumed he was unclothed, to aid in handling bodily functions as well as examination, and her analysis of him seemed to cover at least his chest and legs... which meant he still had legs, and he had shoulders, as well; he could feel them attached to his neck.

But what good were useless limbs? They were like... like dead branches of a tree, they might even snap off into the sand....

She finally traveled up his chest and saw his face, and his eyes, open, watching her.

"A see ye decided tae wake oop again." She consulted a wristwatch. "Eleven hours. A expect ye'll be awake a bit longer this time?"

He blinked. This was that Fate woman. He wondered suddenly if that had been a dream, or she was a lot wilder than she looked... then again, she hadn't sounded too glad to be there; maybe Aliya had tied her up, too.

"Ye willnae speak tae me? Verra well. Then listen."

She took a seat near him, to his right, leaning on the guardrail of the bed, hands dangling from those fine, thin wrists. Her fingers did not tremble, even at rest, and she showed no signs whatsoever of the common symptoms of Legacy. Fascinating.

"Do ye remember the last time A spoke tae ye?"

But she hadn't spoken, it was Aliya... no, there was a time after that... he struggled through a murky film to recall, and triumphantly remembered... that the woman had spoken gibberish. 

He should have learned these twentieth century languages more completely....

She sighed. "The rocks were pressing against yuir spinal column, and yuir vertebrae put pressure on the nerve cluster and cut circulation blood fur aboot eight hours." She flipped through a chart as she spoke, and the air displaced by the pages gently caressed the hot skin of his face. He found the stimulus welcome, and closed his eyes.

"Dunnae go tae sleep on me again!"

Her sharp command snapped his eyes open. Again? He didn't remember sleeping on her in the first place. She was too thin to have been very comfortable; surely he would have remembered _that_....

Once she was certain he wasn't about to pass out, she held an x-ray in front of him. "A ken ye tae be a scientist and a medical person of sorts, A assume ye'll want tae see the scans for yuirself." As she had told him, several of his vertebrae had been neatly put back into place, evident by the white blur of swelled tissue around them and the slightly displaced central nervous bundles that ran like a black stream down the center of his spine. The swelling was unremarkable, obviously what was causing his paralysis.

If the nerves were still alive.

"A'm nae sure whether the paralysis is going tae be permanent or not," she continued, in a softer tone of voice. "As A told ye, it will be nae a week before anything conclusive can be said one way or the other. Ye have no reflexes as of now."

He stared at the x-ray a moment more before turning his head away slightly. No reflexes? Apocalypse had been telling him that for _years_ when he was a child; he'd thought he'd been doing better, but apparently not....

Thoughts of Apocalypse jarred him more fully awake. She's listing your injuries, you idiot! he raged at his mind, trying desperately to summon the concentration enough to actually understand what she was showing him.

The x-rays, as primitive as they were, showed a lot of damage that might or might not be permanent. And if it was....

A cripple, then. A cripple unable even to scoot around in that ridiculous wheeled chair Xavier insisted on using in public.

And no telekinesis with which to propel himself.

Seeming to sense his thoughts, she put the film on his chest, which he did not feel, and pulled out another one.

"This is the CAT scan. Ye may be unfamiliar with it; this is a view of yuir frontal lobes, as seen from the top of yuir head, and the dark spots indicate hemorrhaging or preexisting blood clots."

CAT scan? He'd had a cat, once... small ball of fur with claws. This looked also like a small ball of fur... only it was colored strangely... he mentally equated cats to Apocalypse and another small spurt of panic shot more adrenaline into his system. That was his brain, or supposed to be. Damaged, then.

He'd blown his powers.

Apocalypse had been right. It was a mercy to let the weak perish. It was a mercy to expedite the process.

This image was even more primitive and unhelpful than the last one, and there were several large, dark blotches in what appeared to be a grayish, textured glob. She pointed to one as she continued.

"This one worries me the most, as A've seen it's like before, in telepaths that lost their abilities by over-extension --"

Long before she finished, he had ceased listening, and let his head roll back to the side, the indentations in the stiff pillow making it easier. His neck ached with the movement, a dull, pounding agony stretching down his back, and he closed his eyes, concentrating on it solely, using it to ground himself from the strange falling feeling that threatened him more strongly, and his own wandering concentration.

Mindblind. Crippled. He would be dependent on her -- or whoever wished to keep him alive -- for the rest of his life. There would be no strategy; there would be no rebelling. He was no more of a threat than a squalling infant. Less.

He was aware that she continued to speak, and again, she tried a sharp verbal tactic to wake him, but he wasn't surprised this time, and he heard her sigh and murmur to herself in that strange accent as paper rustled and the stool creaked, relieved of her weight. It didn't matter, except that she was leaving, she was gone.

He tried to reach out, to find her mind, as a final distractionary tactic, find what she wanted from him, and earned only a sharp explosion of pain. Desperately, he attempted to shield, it was so easy, so rudimentary, the first psionic trick he'd ever learned, natural as breathing.

Spasms of dulled pain shot through him, yet even so he still tried, again and again, ignoring the grinding feeling, ignoring the insistent beep of a machine, squalling a warning that his blood pressure was rising, his heart rate increasing too quickly to be normal. It was unlike any pain he'd experienced before, so utterly fine, like the lightest of sands, hot and burning and without depth, no less or greater depending on how hard he tried, always constant.

With a shuddering sigh he finally stopped, eyes squeezed shut and stinging. The pain in his head settled into swift waves, receding slightly and cresting with equal power, a perpetual ocean of discomfort that he knew with a dread certainty would be his constant companion for the long months ahead. The drifting feeling came back suddenly, and he fought it wildly, unwilling to go back to the nightmares, knowing how bad they'd be.

He forced his eyes open, hoping beyond hope that if he just kept them open, staring at something, that he wouldn't submit, wouldn't be dragged back into the world of dull agony and terrifying hallucinations. It was an empty hope, an impossible one, but he didn't care. To dream, the impossible dream... what a maddening, despairing song!

He tried to shake it out of his mind, but it repeated, ceaselessly, with the waves of discomfort in his mind, and he took a shuddering breath before he felt them.

Water -- tears, he corrected himself -- leaked from his eyes, forcing him now and again to blink, forcing him to flirt with the drifting every few seconds. He could count the number of times he'd cried on one hand, starting with --

He took another shuddering breath, trying to drive the thought from his mind, trying not to remember, feeling the tickle of blood as it trickled from his nose, tasting it when he wetted cracked lips. And then he heard her.

"Och," her voice murmured, surprisingly softly, and he squeezed his eyes shut, not caring if the drifting caught him or not. Even it was better than facing her now. His mind laughed at him, at his weakness. And now you've broken, it snarled ruthlessly. He had been so sure she'd been gone; he'd heard her get up, heard her leave --

"A swear tae ye," she murmured fiercely, and he dimly, dimly felt a pressure on his shoulder he could only assume was her hand, "A'll do all that A can tae help ye, Stryfe, A'll work as long as it takes tae get ye back on yuir feet again, but ye have tae believe that ye'll walk again, ye have tae believe...."

He heard the faintest of noises squeezed from him, too close to the sounds he'd caused, so long ago, and he flung himself at the drifting, welcomed it with outstretched arms, wishing it would swallow him up and he could disappear, become a part of it and no longer plagued. Wishing it would take away the distinct sensation of her touching him, wiping the tears tumbling down his face. 

Despair wasn't black, he reflected as he tumbled head over heels, his orientation gone in the wave of pain and dizziness.

Despair looked rather like the back of your eyelids.

* * * * * * *

Moira sighed as she watched Stryfe's heart rate and blood pressure relax, partly from his passing out and partly from the injection of painkillers, and gently turned his face towards her, wiping off the last of the moisture and blood. He'd get a terrible neck cramp if she allowed him to sleep like that, and she didn't want to risk muscle spasms of _any_ kind.

Even now, unconscious, he was still crying a little, his tear ducts evacuating the saline they'd built up and trying to constrict, a normal sleep process. Whatever hemorrhaging he'd caused, it appeared to be mild; the nosebleed was small compared to some of the gushers she'd seen.

It was too much to throw at him at once, she decided regretfully, leaning back onto the stool, which sighed as the air was forced from the cushion. Too much for him to face. He was obviously used to being in near complete control of his environment, and the paralysis, even if it ended up being temporary, could be enough to terrify him. She shouldn't have thrown the telepathic damage at him, as well.

Yet surely he had known? She assumed he'd attempted some sort of telepathic activity, judging from the jump in his brainwaves and the equally sudden increase of blood pressure and heart rate. She'd told him before, but he hadn't looked like he'd remembered much of it, and his refusal to speak... could she attribute that to pride or fear?

Moira shook her head, making sure he seemed stable before walking slowly across the lab and taking a seat on the wooden bar stool in front of her laptop.

* * * * * * *

To: Henry McCoy [H.McCoy@sgy.edu]

From: Moira MacTaggart [MacTaggart@muir.com]

Subject: Psychotherapy

Body: I was wondering if you knew of anyone that had a detailed analysis of Stryfe's behavior and personality? It would be an aid in dealing with him. He regained consciousness today and I informed him of his physical state, and he was obviously deeply distressed. It would not be uncommon for him to fall into a state of unresponsive depression and any insight into his previous behavior and history would be extremely helpful in his psychological repair. And how is my other patient faring?

-Moira MacTaggart

* * * * * * *

To : MacTaggart@muir.com

From : H.McCoy@sgy.edu

Subject : RE:Psychotherapy

There has been no official preliminary analysis of Stryfe's mind. He has never been in captivity long enough for such a procedure. I can, however, give you a brief history, attached. This is the extent of what is known about his history, beginning with what little I was able to get from Domino, and that is filtered from what little she was able to discover herself from Nathan. My own predictions would include extreme belligerence, if he even decides to speak with you at all. I would expect he has literally no idea what to do, having only been a victim once before and entirely uncertain how to behave at all. As to your comments re: depression, I fear that you are correct, and I can offer no advice on how best to handle it. I would suggest the usuals, but finding something that would be of interest to him and did not include harming yourself or another would be an exercise in futility. He has no known hobbies other than genetics and viral biology, both of which I do not suggest as topics of discussion, and no interests outside his main life goals of destroying Apocalypse and Cable, and obviously, Legacy.

Question - is he aware that Nathan is alive? As no other recourse, you could give him that incentive to recover, but again, I highly discourage the idea.

Nathan is doing very well here, under strict supervision of myself and the ever-vigilant Domino. She's taken up residence and has displayed an uncanny ability to rouse herself five minutes before Nathan wakes, to the second. I believe it has something to do with the telepathic link and Nathan's natural waking up process, am investigating. His jaw seems to be healing without difficulty, but his ribs are slow. I took your advice and performed a second surgery, and the acid-treated transplant bone should strengthen them, once his body deposits enough calcium. His knee will never fully repair, however, and I'm debating a secondary surgery to give him further mobility in the replaced joint. He voted very strongly against the aquatic physical therapy, and I've switched him to the anti-grav curriculum. I suggest you do the same with Stryfe, to prevent as much atrophy as possible, as well as for your convenience. 

Keep me informed, and be assured you will have my utmost confidence. Remy has assured me that he is the only one in the mansion that could possibly intercept my email, and since he aided Scott in the installation of the new network, I'm rather inclined to trust him.

Sincerely, Hank

* * * * * * *

Powerless to stop him, Stryfe froze, his terror getting the better of him as his father came ever closer, his intentions far too clear for misunderstanding. He tried to cry out, just a little, even as Apocalypse began the process of destroying him and taking control of his body, but there was nothing he could do, he was being smothered, it hurt, why, father no, I'm me, I'm -

He shuddered, suddenly adrift in space, stars all around him, nothing at all beneath his feet but the blue orb of Earth, so far below, and nothing around for him to grab onto. Unable to help himself, he drifted ever closer to a glowing blue anomaly, near the moon, wait....

The time vortex.

Only this time, there was no Cable to make the leap to, there was no other mind, no other person, he killed Dayspring, he'd finally done it, but not Apocalypse, and now he was dying, trapped, helpless --

He sailed through, and landed in a soft easy chair on the opposite side, staring at a fire and an absolutely deadpan Ch'Vayre.

"What have you done?" the man asked him, quietly, and the room shattered.

Stryfe's eyes flew open, then blinked several times, seeing only the flat, entirely unfascinating ceiling he'd stared at every day for the past week. The lights were on, though that gave him minimal indication of the time of day, but it didn't matter anyway, there was no need to know the time.

All he needed to know was that he was still here, and he was still breathing, and he was still a helpless, useless, wrecked clone.

His eyes closed again, but for some reason the drifting would not return, as it usually had. His only constant was fading, leaving him more and more aware of the world that surrounded him, that carried on its function while he lay under the white sheet, rotting. He didn't want to be aware, he wanted to sleep until it was over, until they let him go.

Too many of his necessary functions were being performed, it was getting harder and harder to remain disoriented, unconscious, sick. It was getting harder and harder to bear the harsh reality of his condition, of his prison. There was no need for them to leave a bodyguard with him, no need for MacTaggart to fear her own safety. He was trapped in his body as surely as a cell, with no means of escape, no longer free to reach outside the strict confines of his own head and into others'.

He sighed, softly, trying to concentrate on the feeling of air in his lungs. He was the survivor; he had flirted with Death and taken her for all that she owned, and yet here he was, a captive of Life. Life was not as forgiving.

And Life had a terrible accent. Though it was getting easier to make out what she was saying. Some words he was completely unfamiliar with, others were distorted to near indistinguishability.

He heard the covers being thrown back from his frame rather than felt it, and he opened his eyes again, not so much curious as trying to alleviate the anticipation of what she was doing. She couldn't really hurt him, not any more than the dull, constant ache.

She nodded to him without a word, her frame drooping with weariness but still steady. Her lab coat was quite wrinkled in the back, he saw as she turned for a moment, seeming to imply she had spent a long time sitting, and her eyes looked a bit more red than usual behind the reflective glass.

She took his right arm, moving it in minute circles and flexing it ever so slightly back and forth. "If at any time ye feel what A'm doing, ye let me ken."

Like ken. He was certain it wasn't an English word, though it wasn't Spanish, French, Germanic, Chinese, or Latin either. Those were the only ancient languages he'd bothered to pick up, except for the Egyptian tongue that wouldn't do him any good in this time period anyway; the others weren't worth his time, since he could always just sca--

Just scan the speaker telepathically to figure out what they were saying.

He closed his eyes again, feeling only when her motions pulled at the skin on his upper shoulders and neck, and was aware that she had moved to his legs only by the sounds of her labcoat rustling. She hummed a bit as she worked, probably trying to keep a rhythm.

So she was trying to limit the damage atrophy would do to his muscles. Why? It wasn't as though he was ever going to use them. He opened his mouth slightly to tell her so, but something made it close. He didn't care enough to point it out. If she wanted to waste her time with such treatments, there was no reason to argue. It might help the ache, just slightly.

It didn't matter.

It took her some time, and he wasn't aware he had fallen asleep until her silence woke him gently. She'd stopped humming. Her movements did little if nothing to relieve the constant, fuzzy misery that told him he still _had_ a body, and he relaxed again, looking for that lovely place between asleep and awake where he could spend infinite amounts of time without being aware of anything at all....

"Mum? A brought ye soom -- excuse me!"

He heard rather than felt the sheet being thrown over him, not paying the slightest attention. Perhaps if he did nothing, eventually he would become nothing?

"Rahne, ye ken better than tae come barging in. He's decent noo."

"A brought ye some lunch," the younger voice, definitely female and ever so slightly familiar, continued with an audible blush. "Navy bean soup, in case th' patient felt well enough tae eat solid food?"

There was a considering pause. "Aye, we should have him eat solid food soon, but A'd like tae wait until he seems more alert, and A've had a chance to make sure his digestive system will function." There was a huge yawn.

"Mum, ye're exhausted. Why dunnae ye eat and take a wee nap? A can handle any timed experiments, if ye'll let me."

"Actually... there's a small box o' powder on th' back shelf in th' storage room." Her voice was retreating; she was leaving him to the hum of the electrical lights once more. The ever-present, ever-constant hum of power surging through long tubes and exciting gas to give off light. So primitive, so irritating, how he wished for blessed silence!

"Ye can brush it through his hair; A hadn't noticed how oily it's gotten. We need tae take care o' him until he sees fit tae wake oop an' do it himself." Probably that last sentence had been aimed at him; it wasn't as if the girl couldn't figure out he was being looked after. Maybe the woman didn't realize he knew it wouldn't make a difference if he were awake; he still couldn't do anything.

"Aye, mum, A can do that."

He slept again until he felt the most curious sensation, and roused himself just enough to figure out what it was and where it was coming from. Fine, soft fingers were dusting his scalp with something, their owner humming a bit before sneezing violently, and he felt the sharp pain of fingernails digging into his scalp with the sound.

"Och, A'm sorry," she murmured quickly, and he took time to wonder why in the world she would be sorry for causing him even the slightest discomfort. Her voice seemed oddly familiar, now that she was closer, and he tried to push it from his mind. He didn't want to remember, he didn't want to be aware, he just wanted to be left alone, in silence, and darkness, and allowed to die.

"This stuff smells worse than rotten potatoes," the voice grumbled to herself, and then he felt the somehow relaxing pull of a comb through his hair. They were worried about his appearance? Surely not, surely it was merely a hygienic precaution, and he strove to ignore the feeling as she worked her way around his head, picking it up at one point to get to the side of his head, and the hair resting against the stiff pillow.

"That dinnae work a bit," she muttered after an indeterminable time had passed, pulling him from pseudo-sleep. He heard her gather her things and leave, however, and he kept his eyes closed, aware of a growing ache in his neck as he remained as he was, lying on his back, with no possible means of even moving himself into a more comfortable position. With effort, he turned his head so it was nearly facing his right shoulder, and slept.

He had no idea how long he was asleep, nor memories of any dreams, but suddenly he was aware that his neck was no longer bent at an odd angle, and in fact someone was moving his head.

His eyes opened almost against his will, and he was staring straight into her brown eyes.

Her face he recognized instantly. Rahne Sinclair, the girl werewolf. He'd met her twice before; if memory served, she had been on one side of the tug of war team that had nearly ripped him apart, halfway through a teleportal some years back. A surge of anger at remembered humiliation rose up before he remembered there wasn't anything he could do about it. A usually gentle girl, he recalled from some files the MLF had pulled on the team earlier, and Moira MacTaggart's adopted daughter.

Of course.

She smiled brightly at him, holding a rolled up towel in her hands. What on earth was she planning to do with that?

"Hello," she said shyly, and, tilting his head up, placed the roll under his neck. It was only then that he realized she had taken his pillow, and in fact another towel was beneath the one now supporting his head.

"A'm glad tae see ye awake. A hope ye don't mind lavender; it's the only shampoo A could find. It doesnae smell that strongly, and the fragrance is a great deal better," she added, by way of explanation. He didn't respond, other than to blink at her, oddly alert, and she kept the smile as she disappeared from sight and reappeared carefully carrying a basin.

She was planning on drowning him?

She carefully placed the shallow basin beneath his now-elevated head, and began to splash the water onto his hair and scalp, the warmth sending a little shiver down the part of his back he could feel. He closed his eyes again as she started splashing water towards his forehead. He was being bathed as one would an infant.

It wasn't the first time he was aware of such care being taken of him. He had woken, briefly, once to Moira cleansing the sweat from his body with a sponge, and other than some small embarrassment at being unable to keep himself clean, he hadn't really cared. This was really no different.

But it was, because he could feel it.

He felt the cold of the liquid soap only a few seconds before his nose detected it, the faintest scent of something other than antiseptic and alcohol, and one he was entirely unfamiliar with. Lavender, had she said? Wasn't that a color, not a smell?

His mind couldn't handle thinking about it for long, and he found himself floating off to a place different from the drifting. He was acutely aware of everything around him, the machines, her, her fingers running and scrubbing gently on his scalp. It was an... an almost comfortable feeling, without any pain whatsoever. He was almost sorry when she stopped, all too soon, and began to wash the soap from his hair with the same gentle, careful fingers. Tension he hadn't even known was there faded at her touch, surprising him, and without his even being aware, the fear faded with it.

He fell asleep long before she was finished toweling his hair off, and for the first time in a long time, he slept a true sleep, with no dreams.

* * * * * * *


	5. Part 5

_Disclaimer: The characters and universe belong to Marvel Comics. No money is being made from this endeavor. The story is co-plotted and co-written by Mitai, Mel, and Persephone. Please do not archive, pop-up, or MST without permission._

**Ashes of Chaos: Break of Dawn  
by Jaya Mitai, Mel, and Persephone**

Part 5

Week Two

Bright light streamed across his closed eyelids, and he squeezed them shut, acknowledging waking to hide his eyes. He turned his head away from the brightness, to the right, and his cheek found the pillow before the ache in his neck spread.

"Rise and shine! Today ye start yuir therapy."

He made no other motion, and she sighed. He heard her footsteps clicking energetically on the tiles. Moira had moved him out of the medlab itself some undeterminable time ago, and placed him instead in a room of his own, near the laboratories. He could still often hear her talk to herself, very faintly, as she worked, but now he was no longer under such close scrutiny. Not that he really understood why she felt giving him privacy would make him more comfortable. He'd denied any pains to her, keeping the medications down in order to stay more lucid in his moments of wakefulness, and as the swelling went down, the pain he felt in his body only grew.

She'd had him in an antigravity chamber several times, for an hour each session, and it alleviated some of the discomfort that was a daily routine for him now. She'd also tried water therapy, but the sheer difficulty of moving his body to the pool and out of it was too much for the delicate woman. It wasn't that she was weak -- she was more steel-willed each day he knew her; rather, her physical build kept her from building upper body strength as much as her profession otherwise might. Rahne had helped her both times they'd moved him, but he'd shown no preference either way, and the antigrav was far more convenient.

Somehow, he didn't think this was a trip to the chamber.

"Stryfe, A know ye can hear me. Open yuir eyes and let's see what ye're capable of."

He let her talk. Who was she kidding? He knew what physical therapy in the twentieth century comprised. Lots of struggle, physically, to force damaged nerves to conduct electrical impulses again. With no mechanical help whatsoever. A struggle that would get him nothing, perhaps even lose strength in her eyes. It would wear him down physically and mentally, make him easy pickings.

And yet, what made him so sure she wanted something? Perhaps Domino rescued him only to force him to live in misery, and she was merely a doctor doing her job? She was a personal friend of Charles Xavier, that much he knew -- perhaps saving his life was supposed to be no more than conscience-salve to the old hypocrite, to his parents?

What if they really did need nothing from him, and his survival didn't matter to them in any way?

Why fight for something unattainable? Even if he could eventually limp along, as soon as he gained mobility they'd put him in a cell and let him rot, and that was being kind. If they could prove to the government that he attempted to assassinate Xavier, he might even get locked in a federal pen, and as weakened as he still would be, he might as well seek out his enemies and expose his heart to them if he was planning his own death in that fashion.

What was there to fight for?

* * * * * * *

"Hi there." 

Pale gray eyelids peeled themselves apart like sweaty skin from a vinyl car seat. 

"Don't look so enthusiastic to be awake, old man." 

Dull gray eyes blinked at her. It was still taking him a while to focus, which was a little alarming, all things considered. Then again, it was only two days since his third and fourth surgeries -- done morning and afternoon just six days after he'd been practically crushed, and McCoy was still giving him a healthy mix of painkillers and something he had dubbed "Cable cocktail." It had to be some seriously heavy proof stuff -- she'd never seen a bedridden Cable that mellow. 

As those eyes slowly focused, she began to consider just how inaccurate 'mellow' was, particularly when applied to the particular Cable who was looking at her so lifelessly. It was... it was frightening, especially when for almost two days after they'd brought him home he'd been sort of awake -- still pretty dazed, not that she could blame him, but almost himself. Cantankerous and aware enough to complain about being dunked in water, for instance. But now?

Domino was not a woman who scared easily, or who liked admitting to being scared. This scared her.

Those eyes shifted without blinking to look to his right, where she could see McCoy in her peripheral vision muttering and staring at X-rays. Surgery wasn't his main field of study, but he'd gathered some of the best joint-specialists this side of the hemisphere. All on personal favors -- after Bastion took everything, Xavier simply didn't have the currency to foot these surgeries. Or if he did, he was saving it for a rainy day. 

Nathan blinked, letting his eyes return to their default position, staring at the ceiling, and at Domino, who had placed herself there on purpose so he couldn't use the excuse of exhaustion to avoid looking at her. Listlessness was something else entirely, and she wasn't quite sure what she was seeing wasn't a closely related cousin. 

She checked their psibond in her head, almost as adeptly as a telepath might. It was her all-telling link to the man below her. It told her when he was about to awaken, when to tell Hank to up the meds, even when Nate just wanted to be alone, to think. She didn't like the... color... of his thoughts, even more dismal and dark. Not a temperature change, so much, nor a mood change, just... somber colors. 

Colors that she'd been trying to replicate upstairs for the past five days, without much luck. No one had seen the canvases, no one but perhaps Logan even knew she spent most of the nights painting if she wasn't at Nate's side. Something to... express what he was feeling. He needed that, and that need was bleeding to her, making her try her hand at a different type of art from what she was accustomed to. 

She didn't like any of the things she painted. They brought her no joy, nor did they make sense, disjointed and difficult to grasp as a whole object. Most of the paintings consisted of somehow clashing earth tones and a repeated crest shape, often in the form of a moon of solid color. She didn't know why it was a moon; it could have been anything from the blade of a psimitar to the crest on a Canaanite family shield to the nice curves of one of their kids mooning him, but whenever she painted, drew, inked, or even doodled, it was a moon. 

A moon over a landscape so utterly void that it was hardly a landscape at all. No sky, no earth, no boundaries. Swirls and bleeds of colors that should have existed in harmony. 

Should have. 

He made no attempt to speak to her, either verbally or telepathically, and seemed almost completely unaware of their psilink at all. He just stared up at her, blinking only occasionally, eyes open only because he was no longer asleep, and eyes should be open when one is awake. There was almost no expression there at all, and how much of that was due to the drugs was only a guess. She knew Jean was worried about it, though she didn't give the redheaded woman much thought these days. 

She hadn't really given Jean much of any thought after the initial fury surrounding her near murder attempt on Stryfe, actually. Moira had spilled the beans in her usual fashion, going up to them the next morning and asking Domino politely if she'd worked it out of her system. The question of what had inevitably led to her opening her mouth, and Jean's anger not only surprised, but hurt. Of all the people there, she would have assumed Jean would have been the most on her side. 

Sure, Scott loved Nate, as far as she cared to notice, or at least cared about him a great deal more than he was willing to admit, but that was nothing compared to the time Jean had spent with him during the pneumonia and immediately after. These days, Domino wasn't sure he was even allowing Jean in his head, and it was a real shame. Woman was devoted to him like she had something to prove, and whether she still felt some sort of debt for not being his real mother or she was trying to hide guilt for helping Stryfe, as well, was anyone's guess. 

And she wasn't interested in speculating. She was interested in figuring out exactly what Nate was thinking, and between his lack of desire to speak to her and his constant drugged state, she was wondering if he could fight the drugs and force coherent thought, or he was giving up, and preferred losing himself to a thick fog of numbness rather than face his current condition. 

Had it been an emotional situation and emotional alone, that wouldn't be odd. But that the situation included some vastly important physical changes was strange. She'd expected him to be yelling about increasing his physical activity, by now, sore abdomen or no.... She almost winced at the thought. No matter how gently Hank had him exercise, she could feel the pain across the link. He'd lost a little under eight inches of his large intestine, and over two feet of small intestine. Which wouldn't limit his diet drastically, or force him into having to carry a bag for fecal matter rather than flushing it the usual way, but it made something as simple as straightening devastatingly painful for him. 

As for the knee... despite their best efforts, it would never hold half as well as his original. They'd reinforced the joints, added shock absorbers, reinforced and surgically reattached tendons and ligaments... but the muscles simply weren't up to the task of controlling the plastic joint. Even jogging would be a risky business. 

This was not even counting the bone damage, the lung damage he'd suffered from the infection, or a myriad of other, smaller ailments. The simple fact was that he'd sustained life-threatening injuries, and his life as a mercenary, at any rate, had ended as swiftly as a pebble falls from a child's hands. 

And his mission had just as obviously gone with it. 

And she was beginning to wonder exactly what it would take to convince Nate to bother to recover. It wasn't like she thought he would die. He was out of those woods, at any rate, despite the strain to his heart and lungs. His brain and powers were intact, but he'd most likely have to walk with the use of either steadying TK or a cane. And she could almost see the apathetic contemplation, whether simply never leaving the bed would be any worse than being forced to accept help for something as simple as walking.

It was his habit, almost a vice at times, to recover from injury. She'd seen it done numerous times. She knew that usually he refused doctor's orders, did everything three times harder than he should have, and forced his body from pain to obedience. Maybe it was the extent, or the short time, or even the nature of the injuries and drugs themselves, but that... that burning need to succeed was not a part of the dull cacophony of colors coming to her. 

It was just from the drugs. It had to be. Just the drugs. Right?

_Don't give up yet, old man. Still things you need to do._

* * * * * * *

Moira watched him closely, hoping her silence and motionlessness would arouse enough curiosity in him to open his eyes, at least prove to her that he had some interest in his fate. Instead, he lay there quite passively, eyes closed, no longer even straining away from the sunlight streaming in.

"Stryfe, do ye not want tae walk again? Are ye not going tae even try?"

Still nothing, and she didn't press the issue. If he didn't have the will, no amount of medicine in the world would save him from these injuries, and he would remain a cripple.

But of course, the psychiatrist part of her mind pointed out. He sees himself as a cripple, sees nothing to fight for, to make the effort worthwhile, and so will not try. Classic depression, really, and she shouldn't have been at all surprised. That he had never spoken to her was another symptom, though it could be attributed to either fear that his voice would sound weak or stubbornness, the only sort of fight he could put up now, the only sort of defiance he could properly display.

She had to give him something to find worthwhile in all this.

Which brought up another question entirely – what would become of Stryfe, when he did recover, regain enough mobility to take care of himself? The injuries wouldn't prevent that, at least; he might never run a marathon and have only a shadow of the flexibility he had before, but he _would_ walk again, that was certain -- if he ever started trying. What did the X-Men have in store for him, and what of Nathan? Hank hadn't sent back anything on the subject, which indicated either that it was bad news or that he simply was going postpone worrying until it could be better ascertained whether Stryfe would even survive this with the ability to be a threat -- with any mobility at all.

He wasn't a federally recognized criminal in any country, which left the local law unaware he even existed. If they did know, surely they thought him dead. Keeping him locked in a cell for the rest of his life would be a terrible waste of a sharp, exceedingly valuable mind, and she saw no reason he couldn't potentially be properly reacclimated to the way people interacted and let loose in civilization. It wasn't a question of pure evilness, she didn't think; he hadn't told her in so many words, hadn't spoken at all, but reading that history made it all the more clear that he literally had no idea how most people acted. He had no concept of emotions or any healthy way of expressing them, he had no concept of the rights of others, of the feelings of others, or how people were supposed to interact at all. And it wasn't that he was too stupid to notice – he'd been specifically trained from practically infancy to behave the way he did, and he saw no fault with it.

That was something that, with time, attention, and trust, he could surmount, just like his physical injuries. And the simple idea of taking the man and helping him into the kind of person one would want as an employee, as a neighbor, as a friend, was almost more appealing than Legacy. Though the rewards weren't necessary equal, they would be equally satisfying. In many ways, helping him would be helping her research, as well. Once he understood and respected the value of human life, he might well regret releasing the virus, and only a madman would have no idea how to cure or vaccinate against it.

And she'd studied this virus for what now seemed like a very, very long time. It had not been designed by a madman.

"Stryfe, ye cannae ignore me forever. Sooner or later, A will win, and so will ye."

* * * * * * *

Domino stretched, her back popping, the tight cotton shirt shifting ever so slightly, warming flesh that was chill for having been exposed to open air conditioning without movement for the past several hours. Not to mention her back felt like hell.

Leaning on a hospital bed from several feet away with your butt anchored to a chair not meant to have you leaning forward did that to you, though. She should know. She'd spent the better part of a week complaining about it.

Brilliant eyes opened and focused on a mop of silvering hair, a bit matted as it fell around his face, eyes closed in an uneasy sleep. It was that unease that had woken her, his anxiety trickling down their link to her.

Their glorious link that she could sense, now, that she could use to feel everything he was feeling. As his mind had slowly bounced back from the shock of his near-death and struggle, the link had slowly grown more strong.

And she loved every second of it, even though it was as annoying as -- as Nate was on a bad day. Which made sense, considering these could hardly be among his better ones.

It was annoying for his nightmares or bad moods, whatever they were, to insist on having her paint them, for instance. All right, not quite every second, then. Not the ones she spent painting -- and those were often an unwanted relief from the sheer _urge_ to be painting. At least the images had been receding a little since yesterday.

She always had a somehow removed sensation that something was wrong with her body, all the while knowing it was his. She felt sometimes as if he were clinging to the link with more of his strength than was wise and at the same time pulling away, and she couldn't go far. She was fairly sure this last was primarily her own worry and obstinacy, likely augmented by the telepathic impressions, but not something she was being controlled into. Still, she didn't seem to be able to leave his side.

It was uncomfortable, worrying, and sometimes downright frustrating. But it was still Nate on the other end, still a live mind. He was still there, where she could feel him, instead of somewhere at the end of an silently unending empty hallway.

And _that_, she loved.

This morning she felt far more optimistic than she had yesterday, and not because she'd slept more. The link felt... clearer. The drugs had been reduced and allowed to work their way slowly out of his system overnight, and there was a different quality to his sleep. Still not what she'd call happy, though, or she'd probably still be napping.

"Hey, Nate." She touched his cheek gently.

A muscle along his jaw twitched, and his eyes, moving beneath his eyelids, glanced in her direction.

"You're having a bad dream."

He took a quick breath, almost a flinch, or a preparation for something unpleasant, and she smiled a bit.

"No, you idiot, you're already having it."

His head shook back and forth slightly, as if denying her words.

"Okay, so it isn't as bad as what happened last week, but it's still got to be bad if you're sweating like this...."

His eyes glanced away from her, the rapid movement almost seeming to wake him.

She sighed. "It isn't anything to be ashamed about, Nate. He blindsided you." Just because the asshole was practically dead half a world away on Muir didn't mean she could deny that he had gotten the jump on Nate. In a bad way. Stryfe really kicked his ass but good. And even if she didn't like it, it had to be admitted.

Nate turned his face slightly away, eyes staring at the farthest corner of the room through his closed eyelids.

"Hey, Nate, don't get that look...."

A blink of closed lids.

"If it's any consolation," Domino cooed, taking his hand gently, "it'll never happen again, because you're never leaving my sight."

Cable started violently, shaking himself awake, and found the strength to glare at the giggling Domino before falling back into a light sleep, thinking even as he fell that there was a distinct impression he'd been being teased....

* * * * * * *

"Xavier Institute, Charles Xavier speaking."

"Good morning."

"Good morning, Emma." He half smiled. "I'm almost surprised you bothered with the phone."

There was a cool laugh from the other end of the line. "It requires more energy to speak telepathically over this range than I felt inclined to throw about today, and if I'm not mistaken, your range is... a bit more restricted than usual at the moment." 

Xavier noted that the silken barb didn't have as much effect as he would have expected, somehow, perhaps because he was distracted by the report Henry had given him. Cable was doing... as well as could be expected, possibly better. Stryfe, according to all reports from Moira -- both direct and relayed through her colleague -- was conscious with increasing regularity and should be recovering, but had not spoken and had moved only minimally. 

Charles couldn't shake the feeling that the man was still dangerous, though, and the possibility of Stryfe recovering more quickly than expected and attacking Moira or Rahne was... less than appealing. While he had the utmost respect for Moira's medical abilities, in a way that regard only made him more uneasy.

Being distracted while talking to Emma was not, as a rule, advisable, and Xavier only permitted his mind to flicker over these questions briefly. "It is, I admit," he agreed smoothly. "May I ask if you had a particular purpose to the call?" She did, of course. They almost never communicated without at least one particular purpose in mind, and frequently with several. Apiece.

"I've been informed," Emma replied briskly, "that Stryfe has been apprehended and left on... Muir Island, I believe, presumably in Dr. MacTaggart's care."

"That is correct, in essence." 

He could almost hear the cool smile in her voice. "Allow me to congratulate you. As I can't imagine, however, that he'll be left there for any very extended period of time, I have a proposal regarding his next destination. I... assume you plan to attempt to rehabilitate him."

"That is entirely possible." There should be a chance. There should always be a chance. The thought was extremely appealing, and yet, he didn't wish to commit himself to that course of action without due caution.

Emma apparently took his words as hedging about a more positive statement rather than true uncertainty, or perhaps simply chose to treat them that way. "Naturally -- and I believe, given my own experiences and skills, that I should be intimately involved in the process."

Charles felt his eyebrows lift. "Indeed? Your suggestions will be taken into consideration, of course."

"Perhaps I could visit, at some point, to discuss the matter... in person?"

"If you prefer. I believe that would be advantageous: would you have time to meet tomorrow morning?"

"The afternoon would be better. I do have some duties to perform regarding the Academy earlier in the day. Two o'clock?"

Xavier agreed and wrote what was probably an entirely superfluous note to himself regarding Emma Frost's impending appointment, then hung up the phone after a courteous exchange of businesslike pleasantries. 

He laid the pen down and steepled his fingers, looking down at the calendar on his desktop. Stryfe had been on Muir nearly a week and a half, and no decision had been made yet. It had initially been assumed that he would be transferred to Westchester as soon as he could be safely moved, but Moira had expressed doubts as to whether Stryfe should really be traveling yet -- and had spoken at other times as though she rather expected to continue treatment on Muir, even mentioning at one point that it was a good thing, too, to have Cable separated from Stryfe by an ocean rather than a medlab aisle or partition, and that she was sure they were glad not to be dealing with the latter situation.

Xavier did believe Stryfe was redeemable. He had to, in the process of believing the same of himself, not solely because of his own atrocities as Onslaught, but for all the enemies who'd taken advantage of their second chances -- and all who hadn't.

Redeemable -- but not necessarily safe. Not for long. 

He'd been procrastinating, aware that any solution would bring its own problems and willing, if not precisely content, to defer for the moment to Moira's insistence that it would be best for her patient as well as the other parties involved if she continued care for the time being. 

Stryfe couldn't stay on Muir indefinitely, though. Eventually, even if not now, he would be too much recovered to permit the risk. And he would still have to be somewhere.

* * * * * * *


	6. Part 6

__

Disclaimer: The characters and universe belong to Marvel Comics. No money is being made from this endeavor. The story is co-plotted and co-written by Mitai, Mel, and Persephone. Please do not archive, pop-up, or MST without permission.

****

Ashes of Chaos: Break of Dawn  
by Jaya Mitai, Mel, and Persephone

Part 6

Cable opened his eyes blearily, not quite sure where he was. His uncertainty was based on two things. The first was that he heard a light female voice soaring in a soft chant. 

The second was that he heard a baritone voice trying to sing along with the woman, and failing utterly. 

Sam's voice wasn't that deep, though he was the only one who seemed likely to be interested in that sort of music -- the chant seemed to have a new-age beat under it and interesting instrumentation that had to be synthesized. Furthermore, the male voice didn't have a Southern accent. 

The semi-familiar ceiling above him really shouldn't have been a surprise -- much less the face peering down at him with an odd mixture of exasperation and relief. 

"Look who decided to join the land of the living." Warm, soft, wry, welcoming voice. _Dom!_

"He seems to have been in the land of the living far longer than I dare imagine, and I can't figure out why," the baritone voice said, a little disapprovingly, and a blue-furred face decided to vie with the black-halved one for his attention. Both were more than slightly out of focus, and he blinked, irritated at how sluggishly his body was responding. 

"Hey, Nate," Domino said softly, and stroked his cheek. What? He reached up a hand, clumsily trying to untangle it from the sheets and wondering why it took so much effort, and it hurt so badly. Why was he in Xavier's mansion? What on Earth had happened to make him feel like he'd had a mountain fall on top... of.... 

Stryfe. 

He half-sat up, then fell back with a bitten-off cry as flames shot through the muscles contracting along his abdomen. Well, he'd obviously had some surgery -- he saw Beast wince, then adjust something to his left. The pain began to fade almost immediately. He hadn't realized he was squeezing Domino's hand until she tapped his tight fist, and he relaxed it apologetically. 

#Where's Stryfe?# 

It hurt to even think along their link. His head hurt. Not as badly as his stomach did at the moment, granted, but it felt like he'd gotten kicked in the head with only a pillow between his skull and the steel-toed boot. Whatever psionic damage it was, at least it apparently was healing on its own... oath, what had the idiot done? All he remembered was watching the rocks rush towards his body, and then --

And then nothing. The vaguest of dreams, maybe a face or a voice here and there.... He'd almost expected to see Moira. Why? 

*Stryfe's on Muir, Cable. He's staying there until he's stable enough to make the trip across the Atlantic.* 

They _rescued_ the motherless son of a flonq?! 

*Nate, calm down. He's burnt out and paralyzed. He's not going anywhere.* 

They _left_ him on the island with Moira, alone?! 

*Nate, listen to me --* 

He was far from listening, and, despite the pain movement was causing him, he still fought to sit up against Domino's gentle hands. McCoy was less tender and arrested his motion quite efficiently.

"Lie back down," the doctor said, more sternly than was his usual wont. "Your enthusiasm for the prospect of restoring yourself to normal mobility is neither objectionable nor unanticipated, but an excess of it could quite easily reinjure you, which I'm sure you agree would only be counterproductive." 

Cable thought hard about fighting with McCoy a moment, then realized he wouldn't get anywhere and gave in, relaxing and unclenching his gut with exceeding care. As soon as he showed signs of cooperation, McCoy released him and took a seat by the side of the unusually large bed they'd set up in the Infirmary. "Tell me," Cable grated, his voice sounding harsh even to his own ears, "that she has someone there to protect her." 

For a moment, Nathan wasn't sure Hank knew what he was talking about, but it was immediately obvious when he did. The beastly face before him deepened into a scowl. "Rahne is... remaining with Moira. Nathan --"

"_Rahne_! Rahne is the most incredibly naive --"

"It has been some time since you associated with her at length, I believe," Beast interrupted firmly. "She is more experienced, more confident, and really quite a capable young lady."

"She's not up to dealing with Stryfe!"

"She _has_ fought him before," McCoy pointed out. Cable stared at him in surprise for a moment; he'd heard something, but hadn't been thinking of it, about when she was -- "With X-Factor," Hank continued. "He did get away, I must admit, but Rahne captured, er, his glove."

"His glove," Nathan repeated flatly.

Hank sighed. "I don't think combat is likely under the circumstances, Nathan. Stryfe is alive, but in very poor condition. He would have died on the trip here. You would have shared his fate." Hank hesitated. "Nathan, you took heavy physical damage. You have a broken jaw, as you've undoubtedly discovered, as well as broken ribs and internal injuries. We also performed multiple surgeries on your knee." 

Cable listened as attentively as he could, rejecting the inviting sensation of drifting off and focusing on Domino's mind -- her relief was palpable, but why did she seem so... so wary? He tried to concentrate, and read Hank's mind, but he couldn't quite. And why was he so cold, and why did his techno-organic arm ache so much? 

Why did he feel that he was pushing on something much larger than it should have been...? Why couldn't he concentrate? 

"The T-O --"

McCoy shook his head significantly at Domino, but Nate wasn't able to catch the reason on their link. Whatever the significance, she'd tucked it away and he'd have to fight her to find it. He wasn't sure it was worth the effort, so he completely released her hand and felt along his shoulder with clumsy, uncoordinated fingers. His right shoulder began to ache as soon as he moved it, but he hardly noticed it, horrified at the metallic feel of his entire chest. Right over the sternum, the virus's usual boundary, a solid mesh of it extended over part of the right side of his pectorals, with a few tendrils stretching completely across his chest to end in his armpit. Bright Lady, it had advanced all the way over his heart --! Downwards it seemed to progress at a slight diagonal, passing just the other side of his navel... fairly normal from there, probably. They wouldn't likely have been performing surgery on his knee if his right leg had gone metal.

"Nathan," Hank started gently, blue eyes fixed on some piece of equipment over his head, "You were very badly injured, and your advanced age made complete healing a very questionable eventuality. At the time, you didn't have control of the virus, but as you can see, for some reason its spread was primarily external, visible, and Jean was able to exert partial control over its growth. It avoided your entire cardiac area -- there's no threat there -- and mended the breaks in your ribs. I'm testing to see how it will attempt to mimic the marrow that resided in those ribs, but so far it appears that you are keeping it stable despite its advance, and your white and red cell counts appear to be healthy."

Nate refused to shudder as he relaxed his arm, and wasn't surprised that Domino took his hand again. He squeezed her fingers, gently, before simply keeping hold of them. "How long?"

McCoy obviously wasn't sure what he was asking. "I estimate we found you around eight hours after the start of the collapse of the base. You had managed to clear a pocket in the rocks, I assume telekinetically, and were close enough to the surface to get enough oxygen to sustain respiration as well as trigger the clotting agents in your blood. You've been in and out of consciousness since then, roughly... nine days."

He couldn't help a groan. No wonder he felt as poorly as he did. Then again --

"We've been placing you in the pool, to keep your muscles from atrophying. Bedsores on top of everything else would have been a little much."

Nathan's eyes sharpened, and he turned his head to glare at the doctor. "And this sort of therapy, you plan to continue it?"

McCoy looked startled, and blinked very rapidly several times. "Until you've learned to walk again, certainly --"

"Did Bastion take all the anti-grav devices?"

"All but one that was in need of repair, and I was able to --"

"No more water." Cable had the distinct impression somewhere in all those vague memories that he'd already stipulated that to the doctor, who was finding his blood pressure suddenly very fascinating....

To her credit, Domino didn't laugh, but she did smile, and leaned over to kiss him solidly on the cheek. "Welcome back, old man."

* * * * * * *

Moira chose the headset instead of the actual receiver; it was so much easier to work and talk without having to pull your shoulder out of joint to hang onto the phone.

Brrrrrrring!

I hope I donnae get Nathan, she thought fervently. He was likely to still be in the Infirmary, probably awake by now, and while she wanted dearly to talk with him, see him, check his condition, she needed him entirely unaware of the questions she needed to ask Henry.

Brrrrrrring!

A glance at the cameras found Stryfe staring idly at the ceiling. As soon as he started moving around on his own, she would limit even this type of surveillance. He would need privacy to do the things he wanted to try without her there to be a witness to his stumbles and falls. She'd have to be exceedingly careful about that; he was as likely to center on getting well only to repay her for witnessing his weakness as he was to fall into the depression that had him at the moment.

"Infirmary, Mrs. McCoy's bouncing baby boy speaking."

"Hello, Hank," Moira chuckled warmly. "Do ye always answer yuir phone with that distinctive introduction?"

"Only when my patients are awake and glaring at me as though a simple gaze could flay the flesh from my bones. What can I do for you this fine morning?"

"Ye can find someplace Nathan isnae likely tae overhear ye or take the conversation from yuir mind."

He didn't skip a beat. "I could most certainly do that. Now, what did you find to be the optimal sodium concentration for the activity of the enzyme... I see... permit me to acquire appropriate writing materials to make note of the feasible parameter ranges...." It was obvious he was on a cordless; she could hear him moving into one of his back rooms, and he let the prattle trail off. "What is it you require, good doctor?"

"A need to know precisely what Stryfe thinks of Nathan. Yuir history is rather incomplete in that area."

"Ah... you ask difficult questions. Why not ask Stryfe himself?"

"He doesnae ken Nate still be alive, and he's decided A'm nae worthy of his conversation. Nae a word has he spoken since arriving."

"That could pose a problem, where conversations are concerned," Hank admitted softly. "As concisely as I know, Stryfe resents Nathan for having known Slym and Redd and for being the original. Very simple, childlike emotions that he has a rather... unhealthy way of expressing. I... could ask Cable for more specific detail, but I frankly think it would be in everyone's best interest if that waited until he felt well enough not to take it out on me with his mind. I prefer the option of fighting opponents I can see."

Moira half-smiled, typing away on her nigh silent laptop keyboard. "Has he e'er had a love? Besides coveting Cable's future wife."

"You mean relations in this time? None that we know of, though his time with the MLF is shady at best. If he did, she either didn't stick around very long or was very, very far in the background. I highly doubt he'd allow himself the luxury of a relationship. He and Nathan are very dedicated to their respective goals. I'm surprised Domino managed to worm her way so deeply into Cable's life."

"A'm glad she took the time," Moira murmured, eyes running over the light black data as it scrolled by. "Ye tell me Stryfe has never shown indication of grasping common emotional elements like remorse? Guilt? Love?"

"None that we have any conclusive evidence of. I'm sure he thinks he understands them, and he may, in fact, believe he is properly exhibiting them. I think he lacks any real understanding of normal human behavior, though I see no particular advantage to Apocalypse having left that entirely out of his education. Granted, if he was merely there to be a host, his own personality wouldn't have mattered; it would have been wiped out by Apocalypse during the transfer." A slight, mirthless chuckle. "On the other hand, you'd have thought En Sabah Nur would have taught Stryfe correct behavior just to spare himself -- and his court -- the headache."

Moira tapped the touchpad thoughtfully, watching the mouse click on the same word several times without any effect. "What are Scott and Jean's plans for Stryfe?"

Hank was heard blowing out his cheeks. "It's been a matter of some debate, though obviously not around Nathan, and will probably be the subject of more." He chuckled again. "I've been trying to avoid thinking about it in the hopes it would somehow resolve itself. Why do you ask?"

"A think A can save him."

"Splendid! How much mobility will he regain, do you project?"

Moira smiled. "A project he'll gain enough tae be a working member of society."

There was a pause. "Surely you're not thinking of trying... he knows all the tricks, Moira, he plays mind games for a living --"

"A still think A can teach him a thing or two aboot life. He has a lot of growing up to do."

* * * * * * *

Rahne crept quietly into the room, stomach dropping in disappointment as she noted the full bowl and the untouched water bottle. His eyes were closed, not in the easy repose of sleep, but against the light beating on him through the unblinded window, the pain she could smell on him, adrenaline and fear and a certain particular stink she could associate almost exclusively with blind terror. She knew that neither she nor Moira had given him anything to fear; her adopted mother had been nothing but reassuring to him, and his constant anxiety baffled her.

He would eat nothing willingly, and she'd seen him maybe once take a drink of water, even then only at Moira's nagging and only when it was obvious that she simply wasn't going to take no for an answer. His weight was falling steadily, and while the IV drip could keep him hydrated, she could hear his painful swallows down the hall. He had to be desperate for a drink, and all he had to do was move his head to the right just slightly to take the bendy straw into his mouth.

Yet he never did.

He didn't move or change position as she walked in, and though she was in human form she was moving very quietly. She just stood there, a minute, three, listening to his quiet yet strained breathing, one of the few symptoms of the pain he remained in. Many times a day Moira asked him about how he felt, if there was pain if she moved him, and invariably he never answered. She was administering painkillers via the IV, but he would silently protest if she attempted to give them in injection form, by turning his head away or -- as he was starting to do more and more often -- glaring at her.

She'd read his file, when Moira was sleeping and her curiosity got the better of her. She'd met him before -- she knew the malice with which he fought, the cruelty that seemed a malevolent glow around him, making him a terror, a true terrorist. With his strength, that same tendency to hate seemed to be coming back -- or was this only apathy, or sullenness? He had been at least mildly curious when he had first arrived, but it had dulled with time, just like his desire to open his eyes or pay attention to anyone.

Now, more and more, he seemed to want simply to be left alone, and deny any desire within himself for anything. Did he want to die? If not, he should be working towards moving himself, instead of refusing to eat and making it even more painful for himself as his body turned to his atrophying muscles for calories. Moira was combating that with nutrients, but it was a natural process and his body wasn't responding very well. His metabolism, despite the two weeks he'd spent confined to bed with little or no movement at all, was still very fast, a quirk of his mutant makeup, and it demanded a high calorie intake. That was something Moira simply couldn't provide him, without drastically injuring his circulatory system, and with each hour that he refused to eat, or move, he was only doing himself greater harm. 

And why? He must know that -- he was a scientist, must be -- he had to have an advanced understanding of the workings of a human body in order to engineer something as deadly as Legacy. He knew that he wouldn't die; Moira could prevent that, but she could not prevent him from wasting away to nothing. He needed to eat. Preferably while he still could -- his digestive system should be able to deal with some foods still, now, but that wouldn't necessarily last forever.

Rahne cleared her throat softly, wondering if he might have actually drifted off. She wanted him to open his eyes, wanted to ask him why in the world he was doing what he was doing, but he didn't respond to her or to anything she did, though she puttered around noisily enough to wake the dead, chattering about nothing as Moira had recommended she do. 

She picked up the full soup bowl, weighing it in her hands as her eyes turned towards the IV. Perhaps she should try again; perhaps he was too proud to ask for help, or thought they wouldn't give it, and if she clearly offered it without seeming to patronize him, perhaps he would change his mind?

"Would ye like yuir soup now? A could prop you up a bit," she offered softly, as lightly as she could without sounding flippant. He did open his eyes enough to glare at her then, and they looked at each other steadily until Stryfe finally angled his face just a little farther away from her. Rahne sighed, looking around and finding no other duties to keep her in the room. She really should have expected that reaction.... When she could find nothing else to do, she sighed again, deeply, and carried the soup bowl away with her, leaving the water precisely where it was.

"You're just hurting yuirself," she finally murmured, watching him a second more before leaving, shutting the door gently behind her. A fifteen yard trip down the hall found her in the lab, putting the bowl of soup on one of the countertops and watching him in the black and white video. He wasn't looking after her, hadn't moved a muscle since she'd locked the doors.

"Ye are a stubborn, stubborn man," she griped at the image, and it flickered once, before clearly showing her that he didn't much care about her opinion.

It was apparent that he didn't much care about anything.

* * * * * * *

Moira reviewed the tapes, keeping the aspirin handy. In a twenty-four hour period, he had moved his head twice, both times in response to her, both times as an avoidance reaction. This indicated many things. He was aware of her; he was aware of them moving around him, and he was paying attention to everything around him. He also seemed to want to be in pain, or perhaps to stay as lucid as possible? -- they were the only reasons she could think of that would cause him to resist the painkillers as constantly as he did. She gave as much as she thought safe through the IV, but a constant stream of them would only encourage addiction. Between his injuries and his refusal to move, the last thing he needed was another physical malady from which to have to recover.

Moira dropped her pen, rubbing the bridge of her nose and reviewing her notes. The only desire she had noticed him actively pursuing was the desire to stay alert. But that was untrue: despite the reluctance to have his senses dulled by chemical means, he spent as much time as possible pretending she and Rahne weren't there, and the lack of interest with which he regarded food and water would indicate that he deemed them non-essential. Without the calories to fuel him, he would drift off more frequently, and be dazed and probably light-headed whenever he was awake. So it was a desire to remain undrugged. And what could be fueling that?

Moira thoughtfully picked up the pen, staring at the words engraved on the side without seeing them. She constantly got pens, pencils, mousepads, and stuffed toys from various research facilities and pharmacies trying to entice her into noticing them, and she couldn't be bothered to even read their name on the side of a free pen. She ignored the irony of her thought pattern for the moment, reassigning her attention to Stryfe.

Why precisely did he have such a strong desire to remain unfettered by drugs when much slighter but still similar symptoms were being produced by his simple refusal to eat? What did he think he was preventing her from doing? It was surely that: only his desire to have some control over his fate and environment would force him into action; it was obvious from his previous behavior. He thought he was fighting her by doing this, but for what purpose? Why did he think he had to be lucid?

She contemplated. Painkillers would make him less aware of his surroundings, limiting his perceptions. Yet he kept his eyes closed, which was doing the same thing. She scribbled it down and immediately crossed it off. Painkillers would alleviate his symptoms, and she briefly toyed with the idea that this was some sort of self-punishment for his stupidity and tactics, then immediately wrote it down and crossed it off. He wasn't a masochist, at least not to this extent. Denying himself the food and water might be lack of interest in living, but he wasn't torturing himself on purpose.

Strong painkillers would most likely cause dreams or hallucinations. Given his background, she could see a fear of that, and actually, that would fit rather well with Rahne's suspicions as to the extent of the constant terror he was in. She had done nothing she could think of to have incited such a deep fear in him; all the news thus far seemed to be fair, not the best but certainly not discouraging. She attributed some of his fear to being so completely at their mercy, but surely he must have figured out by now that she meant him no harm. Was it fear of something he might see in a dream? Dehydration would achieve the same results. Was it a fear of something he might reveal?

She scribbled it down and stared at it, pen poised to scribble it out but frozen mid-stroke. Fear of something he might reveal. She didn't really care about his plans of world conquest, but since she was a friend of Cable, as Stryfe most probably knew, was it fear of revealing plans that would eventually leak to Cable that kept him from accepting the drugs' comforts? That would insinuate that Stryfe knew Cable was still alive, and she wasn't at all sure that was the case. He had shown a tiny little spike of activity in the injured part of his frontal lobe, implying that he wasn't completely mindblind, possibly even that he might even regain some of his telepathic, if not telekinetic, abilities. She hadn't revealed that to him yet. It was too early to tell conclusively, and to bring his hopes up only to dash them again would cause more damage to his already injured self-image. But did it indicate that he could sense Cable, on some level?

She starred that entry in her notebook, staring at it. Afraid of something he might reveal. What else did he know? Nathan had always been closemouthed about the future-past era in which he'd lived, but part of that was pain and part was excused on the basis of there being things you just didn't tell people about the future. Somehow similar scruples didn't seem likely to weigh on Stryfe -- if they were even Cable's real reason, and sometimes one simply couldn't tell -- and neither explanation really seemed as if it should induce unrelenting fear. What else...?

Legacy.

He was afraid of revealing something about Legacy? She circled the entry thoughtfully. He probably knew she'd contracted it. He would have been interested in her since she was an exception in his experiment, an element he hadn't purposefully included. 

She got chills thinking of the release of Legacy as an experiment. It hadn't been a planned one, as far as she could tell; every indication was that he had released it as a horrible and twisted form of vengeance, not so much out of hatred for mutants as a group as out of the knowledge that striking at so many would hurt Scott and Jean more than any blow to them alone ever could. He had seemed, from all anyone had been able or willing to tell her of the events on the moon, to expect to die. 

Which he had, but then, as was _almost_ unsurprising by this point, he had shown up again. Now... now he could watch his revenge play itself out. Now he could see the results for himself, and while it made her shudder to think of watching such a thing with no desire to _change_ it, the alternatives -- that after all that trouble and bitterness he would ignore it entirely, or that someone capable of viral engineering might watch only out of sadistic enjoyment without at least some interest in observing for the sake of his own knowledge -- were inconceivable to her.

Was he afraid to reveal something that would aid her in its cure? That would indicate a desire to see her symptoms, follow the life of the virus in a human host. It would probably give him valuable insight into how the virus had mutated, and her finding the cure would interfere with his experiment. And yet he seemed to ignore her? Perhaps a pretense... or perhaps that wasn't it at all. He was aware, though, that much she had concluded. His unresponsiveness was deliberate.

The more she thought about it, the more it began to make sense -- at least as a partial explanation; she didn't really think it seemed quite likely to produce such an intense fear, though it was hard to tell. On the other hand, while it might not explain that entirely, it did seem a probable reason for a certain amount of his behavior. In fact, it was true that only her desire to cure Legacy kept her from completely giving up in despair on those cold, long nights where her exhaustion and flu-like achy-ness kept her from sleep. Henry had listed it as one of his only hobbies, and viral biology was too complex to be a mere hobby. It was a lifelong interest and perhaps it was the only thing that could spur him into action on top of his depression.

Lifelong, too, was hatred of his brother... and also his for power in any timeline. Fear that his efforts here would be stalled by Cable, the _original_, was probably more than he was willing to accept. Aside from Legacy, as far as she could tell, the only thing he had left here was his determination to... to kill Apocalypse, she would wager, and also... to make life hard for Cable. Very hard.

Then again, why else had he come to this century? He'd been following Cable, there was no doubt, but with what purpose? The MLF hadn't done much in the way of upsetting things... though killing Xavier would have, had he succeeded. She blinked thoughtfully, rolling the pen between her fingers.

What else was here, for him? What was it that he wanted?

And was that, also, something he was afraid to reveal?

She tapped the entry, leaving tiny blue dots where the pen touched the paper. Knowing that, how could she use it? She had no intention of using his hatred of Nathan, of course, and even if he might be considered a more legitimate target Apocalypse was... a bit much, given Stryfe's current condition. Most likely more discouraging than anything else. He would have to come under discussion, but as a topic he seemed less than helpful in her current dilemma.

That left Legacy. Allowing Stryfe to take _her_ as a patient was simply too ludicrous even to suggest; he'd never believe she was sincere, and she wouldn't be. Besides, he was far too physically weak to do so. And trying to fake symptoms of Legacy in an effort to convince him to pay her more attention would only damage their long-term relationship -- his discovery of the early deceit would destroy any trust she might build up with him at a later date.

As for keeping relevant information from Cable... Stryfe would never believe promises not to tell Cable what he told her, and if it were important enough, she would. It would help if she never told Stryfe one way or another that Nathan was still alive; she'd have to be _very_ careful not to reveal that. As for any other secret desires... there was no way to use that to her advantage. Eventually it would be helpful to know what he wanted to do and to have, almost inevitable if she succeeded in beginning more than a physical therapy -- but she had to bring him to the point of acting, of reacting, of doing _something_ now, or he would die. Any desire she did not already know or hypothesize was one she was very unlikely to find out before he started talking, and if he were talking they'd have made a fair step of progress already.

She stared at the way the lines of her writing curved, not seeing the words, eyes focused past them. So it all hinged on Legacy, then. This was his only interest, the only thing he cared about enough to rouse himself out of the depression. The only one, she amended, that she could find. Even the most basic human needs couldn't accomplish this, and it was the key to getting him to open up, the only line to the surface he allowed himself -- if he still did.

It still didn't explain the fear, perhaps, not entirely -- though she couldn't rule that out -- but at the least it was an interest.

And if she couldn't find a way to use it, she was going to lose any chance at all to save his life.

* * * * * * *


	7. Part 7

_Disclaimer: This is a work of fan-fiction based on characters, setting, and so forth belonging to Marvel Comics. No harm is intended and no material or financial profit expected. Please email me if you wish to feedback, archive, MST, or Pop-Up. _

**Ashes of Chaos: Break of Dawn Part 7  
by Jaya Mitai, Mel, and Persephone**

Charles Xavier deprived Emma Frost of the opportunity to make the most dramatic entrance possible by waiting until after her arrival to call Jean. This was not exactly premeditated, nor was it completely unintentional. There was a certain advantage to entering such a meeting last, as long as one could carry it off with flair rather than looking like a student called on the carpet.

Xavier half-lidded his eyes as he called to Jean telepathically: #Emma has arrived to discuss Stryfe's disposition after his physical recovery progresses somewhat further. If you and Scott would please join us in my study.# His own telepathy was of course severely reduced, nearly nonexistent, and this was not entirely against his will -- for he feared his own potential for danger if it were returned, and had refused its restoration. As the most powerful telepath remaining in the mansion, however, Jean kept her mind open at a low level to communication from any who knew her and how to get in touch. And he was hardly likely to forget _that_.

He received a fleeting impression of some dispute involving Henry, Scott, Nathan, Jean, Domino, and food, with the last participant in a central but less active role, before Jean's mental nod and Scott's prompt, and alert, insistence on attending despite her slight expressed reluctance. The two had, Charles was aware, spent much of the previous evening discussing the prospective meeting and probable arguments to be put forth. This made him curious as to the details of how the discussion had gone.

There was another odd impression, one that made Xavier fight a twitching of his lips. Nathan announced loudly and irritably that he'd refused to eat mashed fruits as an infant and was certainly not going back on such a sensible practice in his adulthood; he was promptly and firmly contradicted with varying degrees of cheerfulness. Jean was stifling bittersweet laughter as she left.

Perhaps the maneuver had been subconscious. A full conscious realization of it came to him only with the mild surprise at a very understated deliberacy in Jean's own entrance. It looked perfectly casual; her clothing was itself casual and her manner quite devoid of any intentional overtones of allure or control.

The point was that they weren't needed. Oh, Jean was intrinsically powerful and beautiful, but that was beside the point. She was at home, and she looked it -- and she knew it.

Scott had reached the study earlier while Jean stopped for stated purposes that suggested the dispute over the peaches had not been conducted entirely on the verbal or mental level. Since if either of them had been spattered, however, Scott would seem the more likely candidate, her explanation might have been suspect. In either case, Scott's unstudied and appreciative, if red-concealed, glance towards her was certainly not detrimental to the effect produced by her arrival.

Emma, unfazed, swept onward from the greetings to begin her proposal. "I'm aware Stryfe is currently on Muir Isle under Moira's supervision. When he's sufficiently recovered to be moved, however, I'm sure you'll want to, and I wanted to offer my own facilities and skills now, to conduct the rehabilitation at that time."

"The rehabilitation." That was Scott.

Emma lifted an eyebrow in eloquent surprise. "Of course. I assume the plan is to bring him around... to our side? I know your preference for reforming enemies." She gave Charles a minor smile. "Personally, I might say. I have to approve; it's so much better to have them on one's side...."

Xavier had not allowed the gift of telepathy to rob him entirely, over the years, of the ability to read people in other ways. On the contrary, while minds closed against his own did throw him at times and he was admittedly less confident in his conclusions when he could not confirm them directly, he had used his mutant power systematically and discreetly to decode body language until... well, until he didn't have to guess.

Especially with people he knew well, and had observed and conversed and mindspoken with often, he _knew_ the thought and feeling and impulse behind certain motions or postures or tones, without even having to check.

At least, so he thought. At this point it was the part of wisdom to remind himself that the human mind was capable of nigh-infinite variation and surprise, and that after Onslaught and Bastion, he could not check and would be well advised not to assume too much.

Still, when Jean's gaze sharpened and her back and shoulders stiffened just a bit the way they did at Emma's words, he knew more clearly than words could tell that she'd made the jump: the implication of the use of Emma Frost's _facilities and skills_ was that Emma would run the rehabilitation process herself. And Jean did not like the idea.

"You mean to take Stryfe to the Massachusetts Academy?" 

Emma straightened her spine almost imperceptibly, recognizing there was a battle to be joined. "I do have other possible locations, but as I spend the majority of my time there of late, it would be best to stay nearby."

"The Academy would be out of the question!" Scott interrupted. "There are _children_ there; you can't possibly take Stryfe there." The set of his jaw hinted at what his hidden eyes were saying as he turned to Emma and said deliberately, "I'm certain you care too much for the welfare of your students to risk that."

Xavier cut in quickly and as smoothly as he could, while Emma did not -- quite -- flinch but her blue eyes went cold. Scott did not need to be engaging Emma in a war of barbed words. "If you could all set aside the argument for a moment, we might go over the relevant information, which is how I had intended to begin?"

Acquiescence, a little sheepish in cases.

"Thank you." He selected several sheets of paper from his desk, arranged them in order, and tapped the sheaf on the desk, then looked up and around at the other three occupants of the room without consulting the text. "According to Moira's report, Stryfe suffered _fewer_ injuries from the rockslide than Nathan did; however, there was spinal damage requiring surgery, which she performed. I believe the information so far constitutes a review for all parties."

Jean nodded. Scott spoke up. "What about suffocation?"

"She did mention that, but stated that thanks, no doubt, to your intervention, she found no evidence of lasting damage from that cause. She also notes that she has reason to believe the repair was successful and he _should_ be able to move again, but his progress has so far failed to meet her expectations." Xavier kept his voice carefully neutral, betraying none of the mixed but irrelevant emotions stirred in him by discussion of the relative physical and psychological contributions to paralysis. "To be precise, all vital autonomous functions appear to be intact, but he has exhibited no voluntary motion below the neck."

He glanced back at the sheaf of papers in his hand and extracted another. "In addition, assuming the battle had been at least partially psionic led her to perform a few tests on both Cable and Stryfe beyond the conventional ones. I'll get to the unusual one in a moment; first I should note that the CAT scan of Stryfe is tentatively considered to indicate telepathic damage -- there are some characteristics suggestive of burnout by overextension of powers, as well as some resemblance to scans of... what was left of Proteus's hosts." He tapped the papers once against his palm, then added, "Of course, a key difference is that Stryfe is still alive."

"Those could be old," Jean interjected suddenly. "From when Apocalypse tried and failed to possess him, when Stryfe was thirteen. If they're specifically related to possession...."

"I'll look into whether such data is available on any of the Shadow King's hosts." Xavier paused to take a fountain pen from its holder and mark down another largely unnecessary memorandum, this one regarding medical examinations (posthumous, mostly) on Amahl Farouk's victims. "I should probably, however, note that the corresponding areas in Cable's brain appear to be intact; unless there were other mitigating factors, I would have thought Stryfe's time in possession of Nathan's body would have had some similar effect...."

"Not necessarily. I suppose we could check whether there was similar damage in mine, but I don't think Madelyne caused actual damage -- it could be that it makes a difference if both parties are telepaths, or maybe if they're related and therefore on a similar frequency." Jean paused and frowned, looking at Emma. "Then again, there were those incidents with you and Ororo -- and with me and you, for that matter." 

Emma nodded thoughtfully. "Indeed there were. And Karma's powers never seemed to leave obvious damage. On the other hand, presumably in any case of possession the possessor wishes to have the body remain usable -- and while Stryfe's mind might not be considered the most healthy, I don't believe we have gathered any evidence that would suggest this stemmed directly from injury to the brain. There might also be differences depending on the level of resistance put forth, as well as the skill level of both individuals.... While very interesting, however, I don't believe this is strictly relevant. Perhaps another time?"

"Thank you, Emma. Perhaps those of you mentioned would be willing to be scanned yourselves, for comparison purposes?" Rather grateful for the voluntary assistance in returning to the topic at hand, Charles laid the pen down and resumed. "Now, a psionic energy scan reveals a pattern which, if overlaid on the results of the CAT scan, could suggest the residue of a directed spike of energy --focused and more intense toward the 'point' based on the residue pattern -- that could have caused some of the damage visible in the CAT. As Cable's telepathy seems intact," Charles and Jean shared a wry look, having felt the effects of this wholeness a few times since, when Nathan had been beyond the convenient distance for yelling at someone, "and the same patterns are not visible on his scans, it is postulated that he may have succeeded in doing some telepathic damage to Stryfe."

"I'm sure," Scott murmured, "that he'd be delighted to know that." 

Jean frowned. "Was the psi-energy scan before or after Nate woke up and attacked him again?"

"One of each. There was very little difference. Neither was fully processed until the day after you left, however."

"Why not?" Emma inquired, pale-gold eyebrows drawing together in equal parts disapproval and perplexity. "Moira has the facilities there -- she doesn't like to have the delay of sending off for results, even electronically, if it can be avoided."

No one took the opportunity to ask why exactly Emma Frost would be that familiar with Moira's habits or motives.

"I'm not certain of the usual time requirement," Charles began.

"Hours," Emma informed him briskly. "Not days. I should know; I was involved in the instrument's development. It would extend the time required if she did a full-body scan, which would probably be reasonable given a battle between telekinetics, but the overwhelming majority of the energy residues should still be in the brain. The traces of any attack on the rest of the body would be detectable, but compared to the amount and complexity of those in a brain scan of a psi, they ought to be negligible, especially in terms of computational time." She sat back and crossed one leg over the other. "I suppose the obvious conclusion is that she found something else. What was it?"

"I was," Xavier replied mildly, "just getting to that, though your emphasis on its oddity is appreciated. She found psionic energy distributed through out Stryfe's body -- throughout the nervous system, to be specific, so if it's the result of an attack it was a remarkably directed one. It seems, like that in his brain, to be entirely residual; Moira notes explicitly that there has been no brain activity recorded in the areas believed to be telekinetic control centers." 

In Nathan's case, of course, the full-body scan had been dominated by the extraordinary amount of power, past and present even in his injury, devoted to restraining the techno-organic virus. Xavier could not, however, think of any purpose to be served by bringing this up at the moment. 

"So to put it briefly," Scott summarized, "Stryfe doesn't have his powers and likely never will, and can't move voluntarily below the neck but might recover from that. And there are some very strange psionic phenomena, but that's the clear part right now."

"Correct. I would further add that Moira strongly suspects his current paralysis to be more psychological than physical, and knowing the strength of the mind-body connection -- especially in psis -- is cautiously optimistic about his recovery in that respect." Charles paused, laid the papers back down, and steepled his fingers, gaze touching each of the other three in turn. "Emma precipitated this admittedly necessary discussion by inquiring into our plans for Stryfe. It is probably time -- past time -- to determine exactly what those are."

There was a brief silence. "We can't leave him with Moira," Scott began after a moment. "That's a given."

"I am inclined to agree," Xavier acknowledged, with a certain feeling of relief, "despite the excellent medical care she can offer. That care's success could in itself make him a danger to her."

"The author of Legacy is not already a danger to her?" Emma murmured.

"A further danger, then." Xavier frowned. "Also, perhaps, depending on one's perspective, this introduces either a conflict of interest or an ulterior motive for her aid."

Emma shrugged. "Then again, what better one than to protect the rest of the world from him?"

"That," Scott said quietly, startling them all with his next words, "could be accomplished by imprisoning him." 

Charles contemplated his student for a moment. This was not, despite longstanding bad feeling between Stryfe and his assorted near relatives (not to mention the X-Men as a group), a solution he had expected Scott to propose. 

"True," Emma replied slowly. Xavier decided to allow the conversation to proceed as it would for the moment, partly because at this point he was uncertain where it was going. "But that assumes," she went on, "that the prison in question would hold him once he recovered -- or were you not planning to let him?"

"You know us better than that, Emma." Scott's voice was sharp. "But no matter what we do, he'll have to be confined at least temporarily. That's one thing I seriously doubt the Massachusetts Academy is equipped to handle." 

"For a moment I thought you were proposing to turn him in for prosecution." Emma spoke almost silkily by comparison to Scott's harshness; it was obvious Scott was less than happy with what he was saying.

A heavy sigh. "Maybe we should, but our own situation with respect to such official channels is... tenuous. Besides, he's officially dead, and while we _know_ of his crimes since his supposed death, proving either his involvement with Legacy or his assault on Nathan would present its own complications."

"You don't have to defend that position to me, Scott. I've thought through those difficulties myself, believe me," Emma replied soothingly. "Let me reiterate, I fully agree with the decision to give him a chance, among ourselves -- I would even go so far as to say that this may be the perfect opportunity. This... this being rendered helpless, at the mercy of those he has tried his hardest to make his enemies... may strike to the core of his being as surely as...." She looked down, twisting elegant hands, and finished quietly, "as losing my students did to me."

"Which makes me wonder," Jean said into the ensuing silence, not harshly, "why you'd suggest removing him from those of us he actually holds a grudge against -- for _not_ looking after him when he was helpless and in need of care before, as a child."

"I gather you would prefer to have Stryfe transferred here, then?" Emma replied, all cool ivory self-possession again. Almost. "I'm not certain placing him in the midst of the X-Men would be conducive to recovery, either -- although I'll admit it would perhaps be safer than leaving him on Muir."

Scott frowned. "And certainly safer than trying to keep him in the vicinity of the high school. Still, it's not likely to be safe for Jean to be in extended contact with him -- even if his powers never do come back."

"It would be even less safe for Moira," Xavier pointed out gently. "She is not a telepath; she has less power and less training to protect herself from psionic assault. She is not a telekinetic, to hold off an opponent either telekinetic or much stronger physically than she. Jean is both."

"With all due respect, I'm not sure that would be the main factor. Ability to fight back, that is." Scott took a deep breath before answering the inquiring looks. "Unless we assume that Legacy is... somehow individually targeted, we have no evidence that Stryfe bears Moira any specific ill will. _If_ Stryfe becomes capable of a major attack, which for certain purposes we have to assume he will, Jean and I are the ones he holds a grudge against. For abandoning him."

"He knows he's not Nathan now, though," Jean protested instantly. 

"Somehow I doubt the resentment would have dissipated entirely," Xavier pointed out to her, ready to play devil's advocate to every side if need be. 

"No. No, it wouldn't." Jean leaned forward, eyes hot. "You're right about that. But what are you suggesting we do to protect ourselves from that -- abandon him again?"

"It would hardly be abandonment," Emma replied imperturbably. "Merely an acknowledgement that another might be more qualified, in skill and experience, to conduct telepathic therapy. You are, of course, aware that Charles has experience in the matter as well, but I am far more likely to understand him. In fact, as you say he grew up in Apocalypse's court... well, I can easily imagine a certain thematic similarity to the Hellfire Club."

Jean's eyes grew harder. "Yes. So can I, and I've had telepathic impressions of both places. All things considered, I don't think restoring the atmosphere of his childhood is really likely to help matters, Emma." 

She stood up. "This seems to be hard for some people to remember -- all right, I'll admit it, I've been one of them sometimes -- but Stryfe's our son too." She looked towards each of them in turn, her gaze moving to Scott with no softening. "He's as much my son as Nathan is, even if Nathan's the only one I raised. If I'm claiming one of Madelyne's children, in all fairness it has to be both -- and Stryfe claimed _me_." 

"I understand that," Emma conceded, "but Jean, surely you can't have majored in psychology without realizing that while receiving counsel from a trusted family member is one thing, and may be a very good one, objective counseling in the therapeutic sense from a family member is nearly impossible even in the best of circumstances."

"I'm not saying I'd do the psychotherapy. I'm not qualified, anyway, though Charles is. I'm saying Stryfe should be _here_, with me and Scott, where we can prove we're going to fulfill our obligations."

"And if those obligations prove to include imprisoning him, at least at first? Do you need him blaming you for that?"

It was time to draw this toward a close. No solution was entirely satisfactory, but a compromise of sorts was possible and perhaps would even create the best available option. 

"Nevertheless," Xavier interjected quietly, "the points are well taken that the Massachusetts Academy is as untenable as leaving Stryfe on Muir Isle. I think that ultimately, despite its disadvantages, we had best bring him here when he begins to become more of a threat."

Emma frowned, ever so slightly. "And that would be?"

"An appropriate marker might be mobility. When he can walk around a room unaided, perhaps -- or failing that, when he can propel himself independently by whatever compensatory means may have been adopted." 

The latter, based on Moira's reports, was relatively unlikely; she clearly thought that Stryfe would either recover control of all normal voluntary functions -- or none, in the event that he failed to make the attempt at all. 

"It does make sense," Scott admitted. "Muir probably is better for him in terms of beginning physical recovery -- though I hate leaving the burden on Moira for so long." 

"She's offended enough at the suggestion of removing him at all, actually," Charles replied ruefully. "Perhaps it won't be that long, however, if he begins responding soon. I don't think we've chosen an overly ambitious marker -- though I admit that Nathan's more energetic state currently presents the somewhat attractive possibility of his operating primarily _elsewhere_ by the time Stryfe is brought here."

Scott's expression, the set of his mouth, grew troubled. "We're not trying to get rid of Nate."

"Of course not!" Charles hastened to reassure him. "I meant nothing of the sort. Simply that, given their intense animosity, having the one recovered before the other arrives is not an undesirable outcome."

Scott nodded slowly.

Xavier went on, with a nod to Emma. "Of course, we'll evaluate Stryfe's psychological state at that time, and I'd appreciate it greatly if you would still make yourself available as his therapist." 

He knew it would be less convenient for her than having her patient close by, but he simply would not place Stryfe at a school full of teenagers. Besides, it was true that many of Stryfe's psychological problems seemed to be rooted in his relationship -- or lack thereof -- with Scott and Jean. 

Furthermore, while he had no doubts regarding Moira's skills or trustworthiness, he was intensely reluctant to inflict on an already overworked friend all the work and all the complications Stryfe would inevitably introduce.

"You and Moira may wish to correspond regarding him in the meantime." He actually had the distinct impression that neither woman precisely _wanted_ to talk to the other at all, but had discovered enough advantages to combining their skills that they did so nonetheless.

"And what are you planning to do regarding Moira's safety? I can see you scheming about bodyguards...." 

"Perceptive of you, Emma. I was about to raise the question of who might be appropriate."

"With all due respect," Scott began, "I'm not sure any of us is best equipped to choose right now. Even as long as you, especially, have known her, I'd still be inclined to put the question to someone who's more familiar with how she's been doing lately. From the perspective of having lived with her."

"As I somehow doubt you're suggesting we consult Rahne, whom do you have in mind?" Xavier inquired with a smile. He hid the twinge at the idea that he no longer was one of those who knew Moira best; for all his past history with her and the things he knew that almost no one else did, he still had been less in contact with her of late and was determined to be open to suggestions regarding helpful and compatible safeguards.

Jean cracked a smile. "Well, consulting Rahne wouldn't _hurt_ considering she has to live with the bodyguard too. Keep in mind, she wouldn't exactly be ineffective herself -- at least as long as Stryfe doesn't have his powers."

"Which does us little good if he _does_," Xavier remarked, "however uncertain the prognosis on that front. I'd prefer to have someone there with a distance attack at any time that so much as begins to become an issue." 

"From what I heard from Alex about X-Factor, Rahne was doing pretty well." Scott reasserted his presence in the conversation. "From Kurt about Excalibur, too -- and he's the one I think we should talk to. Not that he could go himself; he's probably busy and might not be best suited, but he led Excalibur while they were on Muir. If I know Kurt, he can probably name the members who got along best and worst with Moira, who might be available, useful, and willing for this, who would and wouldn't be tempted to carry out a vigilante execution -- and importantly, he'd probably still be able to get in touch with all or most of them even now they've disbanded."

"He would, wouldn't he?" Emma mused.

Charles nodded. "I'll ask his thoughts on the matter, then."

* * * * * * *  
  
Stryfe tried to relax shoulders that he was becoming more and more aware of as time went on. And with that returning sensation the pain was intensifying. He knew full well why it hurt and how he could alleviate it, but he couldn't find the energy. Those first few feeble moves would only show Moira how weak he really was. And increase the torment.

And he was finding out on a first-hand basis how utterly exhausting the constant discomfort truly was. He was starting to gain a healthy respect for how well Dayspring had held out, considering his pain was far worse than this, and his time with Stryfe had been as long. How he welcomed the light opiate that she added to the fresh bags of hydrating chemicals; it eased just a little of the pain, just for a while, and let him sleep.

Just for a while. And then he grew more aware of it, and it would rouse him from restless dreams and trap him in a wakefulness that was almost worse than the affliction he was causing himself by refusing to move.

He ached to stretch out, to move off his back, to simply _move._ He knew his metabolism was faster than average, even with his stillness, and he knew that his body was taking itself apart in order to fuel its cells. He also knew that medicine in the twentieth century was far too primitive to administer the necessary nutrients without hideous damage to the thin walls of his circulatory system, and without eating, without exercise, there was nothing that could prevent the deterioration of his muscles.

He had no use for them. He would never again have the ability to move himself around, never well enough to take care of himself. Never have the ability to escape their prisons, their cells, never have the ability to read their thoughts, keep anything from them. The struggle would only cause him more pain, more suffering that he was simply not willing -- or able -- to bear. Not without breaking.

And he was not going to break.

One of them had come back into the room. He kept his eyes closed. She was too loud to be the younger, the shape-shifter, which meant it was Moira. To nag him to eat and drink, to force him to move, to mock him.

And he was too tired.  
/HTML


	8. Part 8

_Disclaimer: The characters and universe belong to Marvel Comics. No money is being made from this endeavor. The story is co-plotted and co-written by Mitai, Mel, and Persephone. Please do not archive, pop-up, or MST without permission._

**Ashes of Chaos: Break of Dawn  
by Jaya Mitai, Mel, and Persephone**

Part 8

Emma checked her mirrors and blind spot, then slid smoothly into the next lane, the car purring under her foot. Visual checks were a good habit to keep, even when a telepathic sweep indicated quite clearly that no one was in her way.

The meeting had gone... moderately well, though not to the extent she'd hoped. At least the X-Men seemed to have a decent grasp of the threat Stryfe presented, even if Scott and more particularly Jean were displaying somewhat unexpected protective, even possessive, tendencies regarding him.

Emma hadn't really expected to have Stryfe turned over to her, qualifications aside, and she was forced to admit that Moira herself was more than capable. Still, she thought with some annoyance, Moira was _not_ qualified to deal with a recalcitrant, much less a hostile, telepath. 

Charles's references to estimates of the likelihood of Stryfe regaining his powers had seemed... low, somehow. Emma hadn't seen the scan results herself, of course, and the damage was presumably serious if Moira claimed it was -- but operating under the assumption that Stryfe would never regain his powers seemed overly incautious. Too optimistic by far from the perspective of dealing with a normally powerful, currently disabled enemy -- perhaps more appropriate to a doctor's caution in promising results, except in that case it seemed too _pessimistic_ and likely to discourage the patient. That didn't seem like Moira.

Moira was probably too idealistic for her own good, actually, in that respect as in many others. She'd consider herself obligated to restore Stryfe to as much function as possible, and hence make him more dangerous.

Emma frowned to herself and eased off the accelerator as she began to overtake a car that was meandering erratically from side to side in _her_ lane, at a speed significantly below the speed limit and even more dramatically below that of the cars in the next lane that were preventing her from moving over to pass it. 

The driver, presumably, was either very inexperienced, very distracted, or considerably impaired in the function of mind, body, or possibly car. A telepathic fingering of the mind cleared matters up by coming away covered with thoughts of an extremely messy chili sandwich. And napkins.

Emma reached out again and planted the rather pointed suggestion in the offending driver's mind that chili stains, even should they occur, might be preferable to _blood_stains, which could very well come to adorn the upholstery if a certain amount of attention did not return from unduly messy early dinners (or very late lunches) to the road.

Still hanging prudently back, she watched with satisfaction as the car ahead of her steadied and began to come up to speed. 

And that, Emma thought, was the sort of thing Xavier and his students would balk at. They _would_ mindwipe or mind-control; Xavier had even taken a student, Karma, whose powers -- of "possession" -- were entirely focused on wholesale, if temporary, takeover. They would only do it, however, when they considered it "necessary," usually for the sake of maintaining secrecy.

Emma was not inclined to argue most of the situations where they found "necessity"; she simply preferred her own, broader definition. What she'd done to that driver barely even qualified as manipulation; she had simply concealed her suggestion to avoid the likely panic most people not accustomed to telepaths would experience at a sudden voice in their heads. It had gotten the car out of her way and quite possibly prevented an eventual wreck.

If she could get hold of Stryfe soon enough and make herself an influence while he was still weakened, she would be able to make him far less hazardous to herself, the world, and specifically her allies. They _were_ allies, and good ones, even if they seemed sometimes to be willfully naive.

Less hazardous. Even useful.

* * * * * * * 

Nathan eyed Hank as the blue-furred doctor moved about the room. It wasn't his best intimidating glare, or even particularly unnerving, though he was starting to think about using one of those if Hank didn't shut up, or at least suddenly develop a much less smooth, soothing, professional, irritating bedside manner.

"...In fact, I dare say within a few days you'll be in shape to start acclimating your reconstructed knee to supporting weight again."

Latching onto the idea of getting up, Nathan let the exasperation he'd felt at being bedridden ever since he had returned to consciousness build to a head. Enough. He reached across his body, right hand closing on the covers, and yanked them back with an unintentional flourish. 

Hank turned around at once, annoyance and alarm evident in his face as he hurried over and leaped across the bed. "Were you warm?" was all he said; Nathan half smiled at the tone. 

"I'm getting up," he informed Hank firmly. "You could," he added after a moment, "get out of the way." Of course, Hank didn't.

Sitting up was an adventure; abused abdominal muscles screeched their heated protest despite all his care to push himself up with his hands, but he persevered. There. Not so bad. He took several breaths, moderately full but none so deep as to induce arguments from his mending ribs. Not vehement ones, at least.

Then he braced himself for the swiveling motion and swung his legs off the bed.

"This is premature," Hank tried.

"I don't care." Nathan's feet touched the floor. It was cold. He tried flexing the toes of his right foot experimentally against the surface. Nice to feel something besides bedsheets, but he was already getting warning twinges from his right knee.

Nothing he couldn't handle, but despite Hank's apparent conviction that he had no sense, he really didn't want to injure himself any worse. 

"Hank. You're in my way. Stop hovering."

Hank failed to move back. "Nathan. My desire to have you confined in my care for an excessive period of time is, I assure you, no more fervent than yours for the same eventuality. I suggest therefore that you try to _avoid_ exacerbating your injuries."

"I'm sick of being in bed," Nathan stated adamantly. "I'm getting up."

He pushed off from the firm mattress, carefully, and stood up with his weight overwhelmingly on his left foot, as he'd planned when he picked which side of bed to get out of. 

Wouldn't want to get up on the wrong side of bed, after all. 

His mouth quirked in amusement at the thought even while he took careful, steadying breaths and blinked to clear the slight dizziness that resulted from standing up after days flat on his back. Nathan was grateful he'd at least been through _some_ therapy, enough to get the blood moving. 

Securely upright, if gingerly so, he looked down and found Hank still hovering worriedly. "I'm not going to fall," Cable pointed out. "I'm standing on my left foot."

Hank considered this for a moment and then stepped back. "An excellent precaution," he acknowledged, then heaved a gusty sigh. "Very well. If you continue it -- and promise to support yourself telekinetically to protect your right knee -- I'll look into stepping up the schedule on your walking practice." A sour look. "If only because the process of propelling you forcibly back into bed might be more deleterious."

Nathan scowled sullenly. That was actually exactly what he'd been planning, but it was irritating to be told as if he weren't likely to think of it himself. More importantly, however, he wanted it to look like a concession. Never let yourself be diverted from a good plan just because people cooperated with it in an annoying fashion. 

"I want to get this knee --" he shifted his right leg slightly, tapping his foot gently on the floor (the nerves in the knee attached to it jangled warningly) in a kind of symbolic stomp "--back in shape as fast as possible," he grumbled. "But I guess that'll do." An appropriately grudging pause. "Yes, I promise."

* * * * * * * 

Kurt Wagner, known sometimes as Nightcrawler, looked up from his book as the telephone rang and bounded agilely from his bed to the middle of the wall, then did a flip to land within reach of the receiver. A curl of his prehensile tail lifted it and brought it to his ear, whereupon he took advantage of its being cordless -- an attribute selected with his acrobatic training and habits in mind -- and hopped back to perch on his footboard. 

"Hello?"

"Hello, Kurt. Are you well?" The voice came as something of a surprise; although he still corresponded since Excalibur's dissolution with various friends who remained superheroes, he had had no reason to expect a call from Charles Xavier today.

"Professor!" Kurt placed his bookmark and then carefully closed the volume. "I am very well, and you?"

"I am fine as well. Forgive my abruptness, but in fact I called to ask you a favor regarding your contacts with other erstwhile members of Excalibur."

"Ah, I see. Whom are you attempting to contact? I would have expected you to ask Moira, first, as most of our files are still on Muir...." 

"I don't wish," Xavier said, sounding slightly uncomfortable, "to contact Moira about this ahead of time."

Kurt blinked and shifted the phone to a blue-furred hand, then took the book with his tail and stretched back to lay it gently on the mattress. This sounded... strange. "How very... interesting. May I ask why?"

There was a short, wry laugh from the other end of the line. "Stryfe attacked Cable at a location in the Alps; both were severely enough injured that the X-Men, upon retrieving them, took them to Muir for treatment. Stryfe is still there, in Moira's care, and currently projected to remain until he recovers some mobility. We've determined that despite Rahne's presence, it would be preferable to have someone else present to offer protection, preferably someone with the ability to attack from a distance. Scott suggested that someone from Excalibur might have an advantage in terms of familiarity, and that you would be the ideal person to consult on both selection and communication with such a person."

Kurt did not drop the telephone, but it was a near thing. A little dazed, he replied, "I will try to assist you, Professor, but first perhaps a slightly less compressed tale of these events...."

* * * * * * *

Stryfe tried very, very hard to ignore the slight headache building up right behind his eyes, concentrating instead on the heat of the sunlight on the left side of his face. It was a constant heat that wasn't welcome, making a thin trickle of sweat tickle down that side of his face, and although Muir's weather didn't seem to include that many clear days, the ever-present sunlight on the same part of his face, every time there was sun, never abating, never shaded or relieved, was getting to him on a level that he would never have dreamed anything so simple and harmless could.

Not to mention the tickle was driving him crazy. And he knew he could turn his head, if he had to, but his refusal to do so recently had made his neck that much more stiff. Therefore moving even slightly tended to bring about an ache that took hours to fade, and he wasn't willing to add that to the list of other minor discomforts, adding up to make him the miserable lump he currently was.

So he remained absolutely still, merely breathing, and cursing every breath as it brought the strange yet attractive odors of food. His stomach had shrunk considerably, and he'd already had fights with his gall bladder, on the subject of _not_ eating, and the enticing aroma of the strange soups Moira had prepared for him was a torture of another kind. Of course, she left it out of his reach just enough to ensure that he'd have to reach up his hands to take the bowl, and he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that even if he could twitch in that direction, he would never again have the muscular control to use the silverware carefully enough to eat without spilling it all over himself.

The same with the water. It would take much less effort, but he'd still have to turn his head quite a distance to find that straw, and since he was getting the fluids he needed intravenously, it was just more pain with no real prize.

Like most of his existence here, he reflected moodily. He was still objective enough to realize that he was falling into a depression, clinically as well as psychologically. He was not moving; his metabolism was falling along with the production of hormones and chemicals in his brain, as his nutrient requirements were not met. Not to mention being constantly worn down by a discomfort that was never alleviated, not getting enough sleep, refusing to talk or even to interact with anything... all these would lead to a physical depression.

And his train of thought was taking it further. But even being able to identify that only made it that much worse. Aware of his misery on so many levels, able to dissect it without changing it. Like his probable inability ever to walk again.

Could he move? Yes. He had enough feeling now that he knew he would be capable of the most basic human movement. He could twitch experimentally like a babe in a cradle. And that would be the extent of his motions, the epitome of the man he could possibly become after this. There was no hope that his mind would recover -- the brain was a fascinating organ in that it did not heal from damages like that. Nerves didn't recover at all, a protein inhibitor preventing the overgrowth that would lead to death. In his own time, such injuries could be corrected, treated, but here...

Here there was no need even to attempt the struggle, because there was no fruit to pluck from the tree of life. He could not defeat Apocalypse. He had sacrificed that chance in one _stupid_ move against Cable, a move that had burned him out; he'd overextended and done it in full knowledge and he'd _wanted_ more power! Caught in the heat of the moment, in his own excitement and hate, he'd crippled himself as surely as he'd crippled or killed Dayspring.

Even the thought of Dayspring's having survived couldn't stir a fire in his gut, and he kept still, kept ignoring the trickle of sweat down his face, kept ignoring the scent of food in the room.

Kept ignoring the woman, or perhaps girl, standing in the doorway, watching him.  
  
* * * * * * *

Rahne stepped into Stryfe's room again, silently this time, for once ignoring Moira's suggestion to make small talk. It was getting wearying, chattering nonsense to someone who never answered, and it made her feel like a fool.

He wasn't asleep, she decided. His breathing was wrong for that. She shifted ever so slightly into a more wolfen form and padded closer, listening and smelling carefully. Yes, he was definitely awake -- but she didn't think he knew she was there.

He still smelled of fear and pain. She sighed, noiselessly. What more could she or Moira do to reassure the man? He'd hardly smelled frightened at all, only angry and shocked, when she and the rest of X-Factor had nearly captured him. And *then* he had been in very real peril of being chopped in half at the waist, if the teleport disk failed. At least she thought so; granted most of her experience with teleport disks was based on Illyana's.

Illyana. Lost soul in bright silver, lost eyes beneath golden hair. Rahne had been so terrified of her back then, back when Illyana was the half-wild demon sorceress queen of Limbo. 

She would have fought for her -- had fought for her -- but she'd been too much of a coward to reach out very often. She'd still been fighting off the lingering feeling that she herself was devilspawn at the time....

By the time Rahne had understood Illyana, and had begun to see that the other girl was as horrified by the evil she'd been tainted with as Rahne herself could be, and as terrified of the attraction of wild power, it had been too late.

Too late for a real friendship with Magik, at any rate, though perhaps there had been some underlying current of kinship eventually. Perhaps. At least Rahne had thought of bringing the Darkchilde face to face with her own rescued alternate -- and the Darkchilde had not killed Illyana.

Instead, the sorceress had sacrificed herself to set the world right as best she could.

The poor child had then had her parents slaughtered before dying herself of the same pathogen that was killing Moira, the same one this man had released.... She was not going to growl. She was being silent.

And... the urge to snarl died away. Stryfe had essentially killed the sweet little innocent girl, and Rahne _knew_ how Moira felt, knew the aches --- and somehow she still couldn't hate him. Not that she was trying. That would be wrong. Love your enemies.... Well, maybe she wasn't quite to that point yet. Not with him.

He reminded her of Illyana. Of Magik. Well, in a very superficial sense, perhaps now he reminded her of the little one, asleep and helpless -- but _she_ had never smelled so terrified, when Rahne was there, and somehow she didn't think little Illyana had fought medical treatment quite so... obstinately.

But he reminded her now of Magik, of what she should have seen and never did until it was too late, until she could only look back and regret. Magik had hidden her pain as best she could, and pushed away those who tried to help.

But then, Magik had at least part of the time regretted the evils she'd done, had never gone so far, surely -- and at times she had genuinely tried to change. 

Rahne frowned, and gave another silent sigh. He'd gone off to sleep while she thought. REM, she noted absently. And from his scent, not a pleasant dream. 

She leaned over the bed in some surprise as his lips parted, as if he meant to speak. Stryfe was frowning, face working slightly and pain and fear showing visibly as they usually didn't when he was awake. Only her enhanced hearing let her catch the words, breathed in a long-unused voice. "No... won't break." 

Won't break? She straightened, staring down at him thoughtfully as he fell silent again. What wouldn't break? Cable? Him? It made very little sense, unless he thought they were trying to torture him into something. Sure, Moira wanted an admission that he was aware and could move, but that seemed a foolish thing to refuse so stubbornly.

On further thought, perhaps it wasn't so strange that he was always afraid. He still considered them enemies -- Moira was a personal friend of Cable and most of the X-Men, and Rahne (aside from working with Cable briefly) had fought him directly in recent years. If she'd been captured by, say, the MLF, Rahne was none too sure that she'd ever really relax no matter how kind they acted -- especially if she were helpless.

There was no help for that situation, really. Here he was, and here he'd stay. They could only try to reassure him -- and to heal him. With all he'd done, she still felt sorry for him.

* * * * * * *

Stryfe lay as he always did now, still and miserable. He'd drifted off to sleep again, he thought, but it hadn't been particularly restful. His dreams, like his wakings, had been filled with pain and the fear of yielding, of showing more weakness than he already had -- as if another drop mattered to an ocean.

A soft voice startled him; he almost flinched. "We arenae trying to break you, ye know."

The girl. Rahne. Wolfsbane. From the sound of her voice, lower and a little rougher than usual, he guessed she was in a wolfen form. But how had she--? She could _not_ have read his mind, could not have known what he was thinking, surely.

"Matter of fact, we're trying our hardest tae put ye back together." She paused for a moment. "But there's only sae much tae be done if ye willnae help yuirself at all."

He felt a soft hand on his forehead for a moment -- it seemed to have fur on it -- before she tilted the water bottle until the straw _just_ touched the corner of his mouth, and then let him alone to think.

And debate whether to try to drink, or try to turn away, or lie still and let the thing tickle at his mouth until somebody decided to move it.

* * * * * * *

Kurt crouched thoughtfully on the ceiling, toes finding purchase where most wouldn't, and waited patiently for an intelligible response to emerge from the telephone. 

He had gone over Xavier's criteria repeatedly before making the call. 

Someone who cared about Moira and could survive a period of some weeks looking after her, with no one there but her and Rahne -- and Stryfe. Who could survive Moira's reaction to being "looked after." 

Someone who had a chance of protecting them both against at least a significantly weakened Stryfe, although Kurt had the uneasy feeling that such an experienced supervillain was not likely to attack before he was prepared to have a reasonably good chance at defeating whoever might be guarding him. A distance attack.

He'd thought about Meggan, whose elemental side could be useful, but didn't think such a sensitive empath was likely to be the best choice. Not for this.

Besides, while either or both would respond at once to a call for aid, she and Brian were newlyweds. It would hardly have been fair to summon them unless he'd concluded they were the ideal choice.

Considering powers, attitude, and likely availability, Kurt had finally settled on asking Pete Wisdom first. This was the fourth number he'd called; he'd gotten an answering machine seven times, refrained from assuming Pete would call back, and persisted. 

Upon hearing _why_ Kurt kept calling him, Pete had -- judging by the resulting clatter and other sounds -- tossed the telephone down in disgust and was currently wandering around the room, muttering to himself and pushing things around. Kurt was getting rather tired of it. 

"Herr Wisdom," he said loudly into the phone. "Either respond or hang up the phone, if you please." 

More noises, a distant grumbled curse, then Pete's voice coming through clear and just a little too loud at first. "Wot? Fine. Thought I'd hung up on you and couldn't find your number." 

Kurt sighed. "Perhaps it would have been helpful to check the phone itself to see whether or not it was still off the hook?" he suggested mildly. "Pete, I am sorry for the necessity of bothering you with this, but all things considered you are the person I'd most prefer to have on Muir with Moira and Rahne at this time."

"Oh, I know. Nobody else has the nerve to snipe back at the bloody hag when she's sick and all altruistic, is that it?"

"And that you might be expected to use your hot knives effectively on Stryfe if he manages to mount an attack -- and not otherwise?"

Pete snorted, and Kurt heard the sound of a lighter, then a puff of something that was presumably smoke across the receiver. "You really expecting that to be a problem, with all the goody-two-shoes spandex-types?"

"Perhaps not... probably not... but there are some I would not ask to live with Moira caring for Stryfe." Kurt paused, then added with some amusement, "Besides, as you pointed out yourself, you take Moira's more abrasive moments well."

"I'm a Brit." He sounded affronted.

"Exactly. Consider that the only other two people in the facility at the moment are Rahne, who is far too gentle much of the time to be snapped at without feeling guilty, and Stryfe, who is probably desperately annoying on purpose but is also her patient and hence will be accorded some consideration on that score. You two weren't fooling anyone; you enjoyed the verbal sparring...."

"Enough, Wagner," Pete growled into the phone. Kurt winced, but the next words, in the same irascible tone, were "I'll be up there in a few days. Got something to finish up first -- unless you think the bloody 'Chaos-Bringer' is going to be up by then? Pretentious bloke, name like that."

* * * * * * *


	9. Part 9

_Disclaimer: This is a work of fan-fiction. No material profit is expected and Marvel's ownership of the characters, setting, relevant past fictional events prior to the divergence of our story from the comics, and improbable imaginary pathogens is fully acknowledged._

**Ashes of Chaos: Break of Dawn  
by Jaya Mitai, Mel, and Persephone  
Part 9**

Moira stumbled into her lab, searing hot mug of coffee in her hands. Was a bit chilly; she'd have to make sure Stryfe was comfortable. Her own slippered feet were quite nicely cozy, and she sighed deeply of coffee aroma as she walked over to the printer, green light flashing to tell her it was out of paper and a stack half an inch thick on the tray.

Sure enough, it was the tests she'd had running last night. Her spectacles slipped lower as her mouth lowered her cheeks in a scowl.

"Ye stupid bloody bastard!" she exploded, and before she even calculated the extent of the potential risks, she had marched down the hall and pushed open the door to Stryfe's semi-private room.

"A'm sick of this dance," she announced, plopping the mug down forcefully on the elevated tray above his chest. The loud sounds didn't seem to phase him; he'd trained himself not to react. Well, fine. She was going to get a reaction out of him if it killed them both.

She waved the print-off under his nose, and was pleased that his eyelids flinched instinctively at the sudden rush of air. "Do ye ken what yuir ridiculous stubbornness is doing tae ye?" She read a few of the results out loud, stressing the important ones, like the steep drop in white blood cells, stemming from lack of protein and movement.

Still nothing. Not a single physical indication to hint that he was even really listening. She slammed the papers -- and her hand -- down on his chest, and his eyes flew open and focused on her with a speed she found startling and a good sign. They were indeed focusing properly, the pupils not dilated, though the lids were wide apart in surprise and -- fear?

"A dunnae care if ye've lost all yuir self-respect, A still expect ye tae respect me!" Her angry green eyes burned intently into his still-surprised dull blue ones. "What do ye think ye're accomplishing with this? Ye're hurting yuir chances of ever recovering again! All this for what? What are ye trying tae accomplish?" Her next question hit him even harder. "Do ye think ye're making progress?"

His eyes quickly adopted a dull, glazed look, and closed. And he reacted, all right. He turned his face away.

Damn him! "Sae yuir just givin' oop now?" She kept her face dangerously close to him. She knew without a doubt from the scans that he could move, if he wanted to. His muscles might protest, but he could. He probably lacked the coordination to actually grab her, but she wasn't in the mood to be thwacked by a large child. Particularly not one as strong as he was still likely to be, regardless of muscular deterioration. "Ye donnae think 'tis worth the pain, tae be able tae move yuirself around again? Ye're afraid tae try?" 

His adam's apple bobbed in a swallow loud enough for even her to hear in the startling silence, and she let that silence ring for almost a minute. He was frightened of her! She hid her astonishment well in her audible, angry breathing, but continued to glare, noting the sudden sweat. What was he so afraid of?! What did he expect her to do, harm him, after all this time? She dropped her voice to a mere whisper, smoothing some of the edge.

"Look. At. Me." He didn't move, and after a moment she put out a finger, hesitating only then. Her touch had literally terrified him, and she didn't want any sort of fear to be associated with this. She wanted him angry, to respond, and to do so without thinking, without noticing until it was too late that he _was_ capable of emotion, of action.

She touched his chin, and he flinched. And she pulled his unresisting face around to look at her. His eyes opened, slowly, looking at some point on her upper nose rather than her eyes.

If he became afraid now, she was going to be undoing any good before she'd even done it.

"Ye can do it and ye ken that," she said very slowly, very quietly. She took the steel from her voice, yet didn't let it soften as much as her heart told her she should. He didn't want her pity, and what she was doing was dangerous enough. His eyes closed again, slowly, and in the most defeatist manner she had ever seen.

She half expected a tear, but apparently he had seen that rare display of emotion as a weakness, wouldn't allow it for himself now. Didn't even bat an eyelash, kept them closed, kept his breathing timed perfectly to his pulse.

Damn! She leaned back, letting contempt seethe into her voice. It was her last card, and the most risky of all. "Fine, Stryfe, ye've made yuir decision. But ye best ken this -- if ye willnae try, ye're a coward pure and simple!"

His eyes did open then, fixing her with a glare so murderous it took all her courage not to step away, to keep the disgust in her eyes as she stared at him. Oddly, his face wasn't matching that glare, his sinuses looked rather swollen, now that he was allowing animation of his face. She didn't back off, and after an eternity, he took a breath, opened his mouth --

And sneezed.

It wasn't just a single sneeze, but an explosion of three nearly simultaneously, clearly having been held back for some time. She was instantly supporting him, calculating why he had that reaction even as his pain-filled moan reached her ears.

Of course. Chest muscles, diaphragm, lungs, tensed shoulders, tensed neck, tensed face -- all those would be screaming at him for making them move so swiftly and suddenly. And the pain only made him that much more tense, which augmented the problem. She laid him back down as quickly as she dared without exacerbating the problem, then hurried to the small counter behind him, throwing open a cupboard above the stainless steel sink.

Moira popped the syringe into her mouth, biting off the cap even as she checked the color of the plastic she was tearing off. It was codeine, would help the pain as well as keep coughing down, if he decided on that, as well.

Fool! He'd most likely caught some sort of bug, with his white count down that low! Idiot man, stubborn as his brother. His eyes were clenched shut with the pain, breathing hoarse in the tense silence that had settled about the room.

"Relax, Stryfe, ye have tae relax or the pain'll just get worse --" He had wonderful arms for finding veins, and even as she grabbed his right arm, getting a blood vessel to rise to the surface, he tugged weakly at her.

Tugged. Moved his arm.

Independently of an involuntary action like sneezing. He tried to pull his arm away from her.

She administered the shot anyway, watching his blood pressure and heart rate climb as he only managed to worsen the pain, and she was certain she heard the tiniest of whimpers from him as he felt the ice running through his arm.

"'Tis codeine, Stryfe. A ken ye want tae be aware, ye're afraid tae be drugged. A'm doing my best here tae cater tae that, but ye're in too much pain tae let this foolishness continue."

At her words his eyes snapped open, dilated and less of a dull blue, tending more towards a thundercloud grey. He managed to stare at her for several seconds before watching the ceiling, clearly struggling to get his breathing under control.

Moira patted his arm until it seemed to be untensing, watching his first rapid blinks slow to those of a drowsy infant. "A ken ye're afraid that ye'll tell me something ye want tae keep tae yuirself, so A'm going tae leave for a few hours, till the codeine wears off. Then ye'll have tae start therapy, tae shake off this bug ye obviously caught."

She tapped his sinuses, gently, and he blinked, trying to flinch back into the pillows. Definitely pressure there, but he had no known allergies, they would have shown up before... perhaps an infection? She glanced at the monitors, unsure as to whether the slight temperature was a symptom of infection or merely a reaction to the drug or his own actions.

It didn't matter either way. She'd come back, when he was still asleep, later, and take a few blood samples, see what she could find.

"And by the way, Stryfe?" His eyes, now quite glazed, moved ever so slowly to her, and she could barely resist a triumphant grin. So he _had_ been paying attention all this time, consciously keeping himself from responding, or he never would have done so under the drugs. "Ye moved yuir arm, just now. Ye almost pulled away from me."

She leaned in ever so close, whispering in his ear, "A told ye you could."

* * * * * * *

Stryfe awoke to the surprising and less common discomfort of being a little chilly. He was covered with only the white bedsheet, and though the room was free of drafts, the air itself was cooler. He'd never been hot here, granted, but something about this morning? afternoon? seemed a bit to the chill side. His head was pounding in rhythm with his heartbeat, and his tongue felt swollen and not entirely his own.

And somewhere, in a room far away, he could hear Moira ranting.

He kept his eyes closed, well aware that there had to be _some_ sort of electronic device in the room, surveillance of some kind, and that the object of her anger was probably him. She'd been far too level-toned with him, far too civil, and he had been expecting such a break in patience even before now. 

He had dredged up his memories of shield-disciplines for the headblind -- disciplines he knew well but had never expected to use from within -- as soon as he had been able to think clearly enough to recall them. One small thing he could control, one thin layer of protection, one more thing to help him hide his thoughts from _her_, one small stumbling block to cast before any telepath she might finally bring in to pry out his secrets. 

He had expected her to lose patience with him, to stop playing the current game.

But he wasn't ready.

Nor was he ready as her footfalls, surprisingly soft and intent in one, carried her into his room. She was going to yell, and he steeled himself not to flinch. It didn't matter, if he didn't respond she could learn nothing from him. He was safe, just so long as he gave nothing away.

Just so long as he didn't break.

He heard her sweep in, could practically feel the waves of frustration rolling off her. Would, if he wasn't mindblind. Could, if he had his telepathy. 

"A'm sick of this dance," she growled without preamble, her voice dangerously close. He did nothing, and couldn't help the flinch as a wall of air assaulted him. "Do ye ken what yuir ridiculous stubborness is doing tae ye?" She seemed to be almost snarling as she read off some bloodwork results. White count off. That was to be expected, might even explain the splitting headache and swollen tongue.

Still he said nothing, tried desperately to remain still, and there seemed to be a pause in the way time flowed.

And then she struck him.

His eyes flew open in surprise and shock, feeling quite clearly her hand as she forcefully pinned the pages of results to his chest. It hurt a little, a twinge of pain fading into the ocean of aches, and she closed the distance between them with her eyes, wild and full of rage. Her gaze was inescapable.

"A dunnae care if ye've lost all yuir self-respect, A still expect ye tae respect me! What do ye think ye're accomplishing with this? Ye're hurting yuir chances of ever recovering again!" She waved a hand in the air, not distracting him from those clear, angry green eyes. Such intensity he had seen in few others. 

"All this for what? What are ye trying tae accomplish?" She paused, glaring, before adding mockingly, "Do ye think ye're making progress?"

He allowed his eyes to take on a glazed look, turning his head from her, hoping beyond hope that she would leave, she would count her victory and leave him be! Oath, why wouldn't she leave him alone? What hints had he given her, how did she know he was so close to giving up? He'd done _nothing_! He _had_ no chance at recovery! Surely she had figured out by now that tactic would not be effective!

Why was she trying? Why did she still believe there was anything there at all? So much of him was gone, just a shred of defiance remained, and even that she had to chip until it was nothing! Would she not rest until every last wisp of the man he had once been was destroyed?!

He felt himself swallowing, trying to loosen the swollen feeling of his tongue. Perhaps the only way to convince her was to voice it? Make her think, perhaps, that he really knew nothing? Wasn't even a cold prison preferable to this woman's company?

"Sae yuir just givin' oop now?" Definitely taunting. He felt a sneeze building, and fought it down desperately. The _last_ thing he needed to was to convince her how badly he truly felt. "Ye donnae think 'tis worth the pain, tae be able tae move yuirself around again? Ye're afraid tae try?" She was almost touching his face, he could feel her warm breath on his cheek.

He ignored the instinct to strike, to bat her away, almost screaming in frustration that simple proximity would panic him so! She couldn't hurt him, not any more than he had hurt himself.

But the mantra was getting old, and his pain was never-fading, and he was beginning to wonder just how much control this woman had over his fate. And how his tiny amount of power was quickly slipping through his fingers.

Her voice, now, soft, nearly a whisper. "Look. At. Me." But he didn't respond, didn't turn his head. Didn't show her the fear, the pain, the despair. Couldn't.

She didn't know it yet, but she had already won.

He felt the hesitance in the room, as thick as a liquid, as deafening as the silence of a mountain breathing. And then she touched him. And he flinched back. But the touch didn't hurt, a warm finger on his jaw that turned him slowly, a slight torture, one he could resist. He'd moved his head already, and faster than that.

"Ye can do it and ye ken that," she murmured. Her voice was very soft, very low. Enticing. Asking something of him, but it was the wrong question! Did the woman not understand that she simply wasn't skilled enough to _heal_ him? Was she simply assuming that mere physical therapy could get him over this injury? He was mindblind! A telepath without telepathy! A warrior without a weapon! Nothing was left of him, she _could not save him!_ Why did she insist on this tactic, why did she try so to instill that false hope in him?!

He closed his eyes slowly, had to to keep the sudden tears from escaping. He was _not_ going to cry like a child, he was _not_ --

"Fine, Stryfe, ye've made yuir decision," she spat in disgust, filling the silence with her anger. "But ye best ken this - if ye willnae try, ye're a coward pure and simple!"

His eyes flew open as a sudden anger filled him. It wasn't true, it _wasn't!_ He was not running from his destiny, his fate! He had not fled to another century to escape his own failures! He was Stryfe, the Chaos-Bringer, and he was _not_ a coward!

He felt himself reacting without thinking, sucking in the breath to reply, to make her _understand_, and the building sneeze came from nowhere.

Three times his chest contracted, expelling air from his lungs at over a hundred miles an hour. And three times agony gripped him, as if the talons of the Phoenix had buried themselves into his skull, so this tore through him. Had he the breath he would have screamed, and as it was a moan erupted from somewhere in his chest, just before another wave, this one from his lower abdomen and shoulders, back, arms -- it was too much.

He felt her arms behind him, lowering him slowly backwards, and terror gripped him. She was making her move, the woman sensed victory, and he could do nothing -- nothing! to stop her! The pain was too great, he fought the urge to curl up into himself, to hide in a ball until it passed him, until it was simply the lapping puddles of lesser discomforts, until it just ended -

He felt her grip his arm, felt the pressure of her fingers, trying to raise a blood vessel. "Relax, Stryfe, ye have tae relax or the pain'll just get worse --" He tried to tear his arm away, finally actually _tried_ and her grip never flinched, the ice flowing into him as surely as Death would have claimed him beneath the rocks. He shuddered as it started to take effect, relaxing muscles he hadn't even been aware were clenched.

It was more than a shudder, he was trembling from exertion. He shouldn't be, he shouldn't have been able to tense to the extent of this reaction, surely it was a side effect of the drug --

"'Tis codeine, Stryfe," she murmured, in a surprisingly soothing tone of voice. Not the triumphant ring he expected, not at all. "A ken ye want tae be aware, ye're afraid tae be drugged. A'm doing my best here tae cater tae that, but ye're in too much pain tae let this foolishness continue." He heard her drop the syringe, felt even more of himself uncurling, and with it the pain receding.

Codeine, codeine -- wasn't that a derivative of morphine? He suppressed a moan of despair, opening his eyes, watching her. It would debilitate him, it already was, creeping tendrils that were making his awareness less and less sharp.

He felt her hand on his arm, patting him almost too gently for him to feel. "A ken ye're afraid that ye'll tell me something ye want tae keep tae yuirself, so A'm going tae leave for a few hours, till the codeine wears off. Then ye'll have tae start therapy, tae shake off this bug ye obviously caught."

Even in the state he was rapidly falling victim to, fear clenched a knot in his gut. She knew. It had been a game, then, she knew -- she was leaving? No, he couldn't have heard right, she was lying, trying to relax him even as he fought the drug, fought the muzziness that crept over him like a soggy down comforter.

She reached fingers for his face, suddenly, tapping ungently on his swollen glands, making him start back at the surprising pain there, and she stopped almost immediately. He tried to focus on the ceiling, she was too close to see comfortably without his eyes unfocusing. What was she doing, surely it wasn't concern, surely it was still part of her game --

"And by the way, Stryfe?" There was a pause, and she removed her fingers from his face. "Ye moved yuir arm, just now. Ye almost pulled away from me." No, no, he had tried, surely he hadn't succeeded, surely she was... she was lying, wasn't she? He dragged his eyes back to her, slowly, and only saw the blur of her, coming closer, closer still, she was right beside him --

"A told ye you could."

* * * * * * *


	10. Part 10

**Ashes of Chaos: Break of Dawn  
by Jaya Mitai, Mel, and Persephone  
Part 10**

Moira stepped back as Stryfe's eyes flickered at her words. Surprise, maybe? She watched him slip into a stupor, a drowsy haze induced by the codeine. He seemed to react relatively strongly to it, for the dose she'd given him; she scribbled a note to herself not to overdo its application.

She had told him she would leave for a few hours while it wore off. And so she would. But first, there were a few things to take care of. She wiped the light sweat from his face and neck, and felt more gently at the swollen sinuses. That had to be painful. Moira sighed softly and took another blood sample for testing, tossed the first light blanket that came to hand over his still form, then retreated to her laboratory to let him alone as promised. She had a good idea how long it would be before he woke, after all, and could check via monitor if need be.

The tests should be finished by the time he awoke; that was good. She lined up her equipment, thoughtfully, automatically making a mental schedule of the organization. Proportional white blood cell counts, certainly... histamine levels... and of course the more advanced tests that searched for nucleotide sequences or protein structures common to assorted cold and flu viruses. Naturally those couldn't be absolutely certain; there were too many varieties for that, but they could serve as a clue. She'd never have been able to run them at all without the "special" technology here, though. Even with it, she would start them first; they didn't take over any necessary instruments for the other tests, and they would take the longest.

After a moment's thought, Moira tapped her pen against her teeth and added a check for Legacy to the procedural sketch she was jotting down. The idea that he would have contracted _that_ was almost laughable, and yet... she couldn't simply dismiss it; doing so would be far too irresponsible. It did seem unlikely, to be sure; what kind of fool would release a virus like that and not take steps to ensure that he would be immune?

But then, as far as could be determined from the timing and his own words on the moon, Stryfe had released Legacy as a sort of final strike, from beyond death -- hence the name, perhaps -- so if he'd expected to be dead, one never knew...

Still, that test -- rather to her relief -- came out negative, as did the other, less specific and accordingly less definitive virus tests. There was nothing to indicate a bacterial infection, either. On the other hand, his eosinophils were high in relation to other types of white blood cells, which was usually associated with allergic reactions. High histamine, too, she noted without surprise.

Moira glanced at her watch, then frowned at it as she realized she had left it set in another mode to time one of her experiments instead of showing the actual time. She adjusted it, and promptly frowned again. Stryfe probably wouldn't be alert again just yet; it hadn't been long enough. She'd been almost too efficient planning and executing her tests.

And she had promised to stay away until the codeine wore off. With a long sigh, Moira stood up and paced the length of her lab, back and forth, bringing a hand up to rub the back of her neck and shoulder. Really, she should consider herself fortunate not to have any worse symptoms -- and she did, she did -- but these everlasting influenza-style aches were becoming wearing.

Sinister had even suggested that the aches could be due to weariness themselves, given the hours she appeared to work. Yes, Sinister. Moira's lips twitched as she glanced at the locked cabinet where she kept the files he'd astounded her by sending, along with a surprisingly polite request for an exchange of information.

His data had been useful, and the results she'd attempted to duplicate appeared reliable, so she'd treated it -- very cautiously -- as a good-faith offer and sent him carefully-chosen results of her own. In particular, ones that she couldn't really imagine aiding him towards any nefarious purpose. Replications of his own experiments, for instance, that could improve statistical reliability but not provide too much new information....

Granted the initial hesitant, professional courtesy had degenerated rapidly, with further correspondence, into enthusiastic philosophical arguments and the occasional nationalistic insult in between the scientific exchanges, but that was really rather invigorating. Still. It hadn't been a particularly implausible explanation, except that she'd worked just as hard and just as long, as intensely, on other occasions without the same difficulties.

She wondered if he had communicated with her before under another name. An alias for the general scientific community.... If so, however, why reveal himself now? Perhaps it was the specific interest.

"Mum?"

Moira turned, a bit startled, to see Rahne standing in the doorway with a half-shy, half-amused smile on her face and a tray in her hands. "Aye?"

"There ye are. A brought ye some lunch -- ye scold Stryfe for not eating and then forget tae eat yuirself. Can't have that, can we?" the girl replied. "Now come on, ye shouldna be eating in the lab, either."

"He should be waking soon enough, lass." She gestured at the test results on her desk. "A finally resorted tae yelling at him, called him a coward, even -- aye, donnae say it, A ken 'twas dangerous. A think he was aboot tae answer me when he started sneezing instead; his sinuses are swollen, too, sae A ran some tests and A think he's allergic tae something -- A just donnae ken what. He moved on his own, though, tried to pull his arm away when A gave him a shot for the pain, sae when he's awake again A plan tae start him on physical therapy -- and A willnae let him refuse this time, either."

"Good!" Rahne grinned -- Moira had warmed to the subject and was clearly pleased that her patient had finally decided to start moving. "He's nae awakened yet, though? Then ye have time for a meal, and yui're going tae have one." She paused, and added mischievously, "And A willnae let _ye_ refuse this time, either. He can wait a bit. A've already eaten; if ye want me tae check on him before ye finish A will."

Moira chuckled and followed her child -- ward no longer, as Rahne was of legal age now -- out to the kitchen. She wanted to strike while the iron was hot, of course, but descending on Stryfe as soon as he woke up probably wouldn't build confidence in her, as she'd already offered him a bit of privacy. Besides, it would indeed be wise to eat lunch before what promised to be a decidedly strenuous encounter.

* * * * * * *

A sort of vague awareness crept in amongst the dizzying fog of unconsciousness, and Stryfe awoke. As usual, he didn't open his eyes. He could tell the light was still there, anyway, and if Moira or Rahne were there it would be only one more reason not to react, not to give anything away.

But he already had, hadn't he? He'd been too worn down to resist, and Moira had known it, had known his mind as surely as any telepath, even.... He quelled the urge to groan in despair. That was why he felt so much more sluggish than usual; she'd drugged him; she must have gotten what she wanted by now, and he was as good as dead.

His life had already been worthless to him. Why should he feel such sickening fear at the thought that it was now equally worthless to his captor? Perhaps... perhaps, now that it was such an immediate likelihood... perhaps he didn't want to die after all.

He felt utterly miserable. His head hurt, and on top of the usual discomfort, pain still assailed him from his shoulders, chest, and abdomen as if he'd been doing some sort of unaccustomed exercise. Which, as he couldn't move, should have been impossible. The sharp aches and the lingering effects of the codeine -- yes, that was what she'd said she had injected -- conspired to make unconsciousness inviting, tempting; he was drifting again,

Until he brought himself to full alertness and considerable agony by sneezing again, three more times, three more explosions that convulsed his chest and felt as though they would somehow crush his eyes. He flopped back against the pillow, gasping, trying to hold a cry inside his chest, and winced as the abrupt motion jostled his pounding head again. And then he sniffled. Which he thought for a moment was going to start him on another sneezing fit, but luckily it didn't...

Apparently it was not at all difficult to feel worse than he had a moment ago. He was certainly managing to. And now he was fully awake, so all the pain was harder to ignore. Stryfe gave up and opened his eyes to the ceiling again, noticing dully that Moira didn't seem to be present, as she probably would have noticed and approached him at that point -- and then he froze.

He'd... flopped back against the pillows.

He had felt that quite clearly. Not merely in his jolted skull -- he'd felt the impact, felt his _shoulders_ strike against soft cloth --

And if he had fallen back, then he must first have lifted himself partly off the bed. He must have moved.

He turned his head, with an effort, looking down to where his arm should be. He wasn't chilled anymore, and now saw why -- he'd been covered with an extra blanket. It was soft, thin, and dyed with pink and burgundy paisley on a soft gray background. It appeared to have been designed by someone with a slightly demented sense of aesthetics.

Moira had said he'd almost pulled away from her. She'd been lying. Hadn't she? But he'd just moved, moments ago.... He would try. He swallowed hard, the sound loud in the empty room, and tried to lift his arm.

And the blanket lifted.

His breathing rasping slightly, Stryfe moved the limb sideways, and managed to shake it free of the blanket and sheet, and bring it into his field of vision again, turn the hand over, clumsily flex his fingers. His muscles screamed at him in protest and he trembled from the shoulder to the hand with exertion, but he'd done it, he had moved --

She hadn't been lying. All those times she told him he could move again, all those times he'd dismissed her words as a deceitful attempt to start him on a futile quest, to make a fool of him, all those times he hadn't listened, she hadn't been lying. He could move. Far more than he had imagined possible after the mountain -- he cut off that thought again with a shudder.

"A told ye you could." The memory rang again in his ears.

Moira hadn't been lying when she said he could move.

Exhausted, he let his arm fall again, this time on top of the bizarre covering. Hope... how could he even dare to hope? She would probably come back in a few minutes and get rid of him, or not come back at all and let him wither away in solitude, as he'd thought he wanted her to do in the first place.

He felt the sneeze coming, this time, and managed a deep enough breath that on expulsion it didn't seem to cramp his lungs as severely. He still felt like moaning as his headache spiked sharply in intensity and then climbed onto a new plateau and settled in for a long stay.

He _didn't_ want to be left alone, not now, not when he had finally discovered that there was just the slightest chance he could recover at least a small part of his abilities... but he had broken, and surely there was no reason to expect help anymore, when his cooperation would no longer be worth acquiring.

Stryfe sighed, and cursed himself as the exhalation carried a faint whimper with it. Now he wanted -- he wanted someone to come, to take care of him until he could do it for himself, if he ever could, even if he ended in some flatscan prison; he wanted someone to care _about_ him and comfort him as Apocalypse never had, as he hated his "parents" for never doing, as they should have done.

He wanted that as he had tried to forget he did ever since one day, in a slight childhood illness, he'd asked for it and shriveled as the High Lord scoffed and scolded him for weakness --

And he still did, some lingering, insidious idea that perhaps they wouldn't really despise him, perhaps they would be different, letting some part of his mind cling to an idiotic dream. He was a fool. He hated himself for this weakness, defended against it by encouraging the growing resentment of the two women who would see his physical weakness -- he could hardly help that; it was far too late, but this one at least he could hide.

Yet another sneezing fit racked him, splashing pain into his head, around his eyes. He heard quick footsteps, he thought, and after the fourth he opened his eyes, dizzily, to find Moira beside him, her arms supporting him and easing a little of the strain. He barely had time to notice that she seemed to be trying to look concerned before a final sneeze forced his eyes shut again.

He tried to relax, afterwards, tried not to tense against the pain shooting from startled and abused muscles. If he didn't relax, it would hurt more, and she might decide to drug him again -- though at this point he wasn't sure why he should even bother trying to prevent it; it wasn't as though she couldn't have gotten whatever she wanted already....

"Shhh, Stryfe, easy -- here, as long as ye've gotten half sitting up ye might as well finish the job." Her voice was surprisingly gentle as she pushed him upright, adjusting the bedcoverings slightly before calling, "Rahne, hand me the box of tissues, would you lass?"

The pain in his lower back nearly made him pass out again, and he gasped -- he would _not_ scream! With great effort, he managed to flex his legs, bending at the knees despite the complaints from his muscles, concentrating on the feeling of the sheet sliding against his knees. That helped, somewhat; so did leaning heavily back against Moira's arm.

"Och, A'm sorry, A dinnae think aboot how that would hurt!" Why should she care if she hurt him? She grunted slightly and slid further behind him, half sitting on the bed, to support his head. Just as well; he'd been wondering how much longer his neck would do so. He supposed her action made sense -- he was massive enough that holding his torso up would be a strain.

"There. Blow yuir nose." He tried. It did help; he could breathe a little more freely afterwards, as she discarded the wad and used a fresh tissue to wipe his eyes. They were watering badly -- he _was not_ crying; it was only from whatever was making him sneeze. Fortunately, Moira didn't comment on it.

"There, now. A'm nae sure what the matter is, but all the tests A could run point tae some sort of allergy. A'll get rid of the allergen as soon as A ken what it is, but until then all A can really do is give ye an antihistamine."

He shook his head slightly. She frowned. He swallowed hard, opened his mouth, then closed it again and tried to look over his shoulder toward the water bottle. He'd let his neck stiffen too much; he couldn't see it -- but apparently Rahne understood, and held it up for him.

Stryfe closed his eyes as he finally accepted the straw and let the cool moisture run over his tongue, down his throat -- raised in the desert, even in luxury, he would never lose a certain special appreciation for water. He drank greedily enough that after several swallows Moira took the bottle and pulled it away.

"A'm glad ye decided tae start drinking the water, now, but ye cannae make up for the past few weeks all at once! Now, ye were saying?"

He was? Well... yes, he _had_ been about to speak, and this wasn't worth the battle right now -- "It... won't work. Antihistamines -- have no effect. Mutant." His voice was rough, and weaker than he would have liked, but that was only to be expected. He would not just let it fail him there, though. "Mutant metabolic pathways... can be a little different."

Moira raised an eyebrow. "Aye, that A ken, but that's nae an effect A've encountered before. A guess ye'd ken, though."

He scowled at her suddenly. As long as he'd decided to talk, he might as well ask. "What does ken mean?"

"Ye dunnae ken what 'ken' means?" She was mocking him! And from the sentence itself, he abruptly realized what it meant, what it had to mean, and felt like a complete idiot for not having realized it from context before. "Och, sorry, it means 'know.'"

"I figured that out!" he snapped, sullen now, and heard her sigh. Felt her sigh, too, since he was still leaning on her.

"Aye, well... enough on that. Ye've begun moving aboot, now, that's very good; truth tae tell, if ye'd waited much longer A'm nae sure ye'd have been able tae get started after all. As it is, despite all the harm ye've done yuirself waiting sae lang, we ought tae be able tae get ye back on yuir feet soon enough, if ye put the effort intae it."

She rambled on for a few minutes, detailing her plans for physical therapy and explaining how long she estimated it would be before he could stand, before he could walk, cautioning him frequently that she *was* only estimating and couldn't guarantee that it wouldn't be sooner or later, warning him that it would be hard, of course, and painful, but she was sure he could get through it....

He listened in growing incredulity. Physical therapy? Getting him back on his feet? He'd begun, just barely, to believe it was possible -- but what motive could _she_ possibly have for pursuing this healing, when she'd surely already found a way to get what she wanted?

Could it be that she really wanted to heal him? Ridiculous. He finally broke into her spiel. "Why are you doing this?"

"What?"

"Why are you doing this?" More heated this time. "What do you want? Why keep on with plans like that? What do you want with a wrecked clone?"

Behind him, Moira went very still. Then he felt her arms go around his ribs and press. Her voice, when she finally answered, was low and fierce. "A wrecked clone? Is that all ye can see of yuirself? Ye're a man, Stryfe, nae a biology experiment, and ye're injured but ye can recover. What do A want? A want tae have ye healed, have ye walk again.

"A doubt ye'll ever be back in quite as good condition as before, A willnae lie, but how much ye do get back is yuir call. Tae teach ye that both ye and everyone _else_ in the world does have worth. Why am A doing it? Tae _get_what A just told ye A want, and because 'tis my duty."  
  
A man, not a biology experiment. He did want to believe that. Could she be telling him the truth? She seemed honest enough about the prospects for his recovery -- oath, it was going to be rough, though, if just now was any indication. Could she have known how the pain, and having to move his own legs to alleviate it, would only spark a flare of determination to fight through...?

But healing him couldn't be her only motive; it made no sense. She had to be after something more; that sort of altruism was implausible, and surely whatever personal satisfaction she might receive from exercising professional skill couldn't account for nagging him as she had, and apparently planned to continue, much less the rest of the trouble she would have to take.

Besides, it didn't matter. "What's the point?" he muttered, remembering. "I'm burnt out--" Oh, how bitter the words; he could almost taste them... "and why bother with physical therapy, even, when the best I could hope is to be able to walk around a cell? Don't try to fool me; I know better -- I'd only be locked up, if I did recover."

"What A'm hoping," Moira replied pensively, "is that it willnae be necessary tae lock ye up, after all's said and done."

* * * * * * *


	11. Part 11

**Ashes of Chaos: Break of Dawn  
by Jaya Mitai, Mel, and Persephone  
Part 11**

Week Three

Rahne sighed as she sorted through everything she and Moira had identified that Stryfe could possibly be exposed to. The cleaning agent they used in the lower labs. The lemon solution for cleaning the floors, the window-cleaner, the instrument cleaner, the plastic cleaner, the laundry detergent they washed Stryfe's sheets in, and the solution they ran through the autoclave when cleaning the syringes and IV lines.

Earlier they'd also placed a little planter of African violets near his window, to add some color and make something in the room match the outlandish blanket that covered Stryfe, and had since removed it, vacuuming and putting a static filter over the air system in the hopes of catching all the pollen. After twenty-four hours, his symptoms had not improved. As he had been fine for a week, Moira knew it wasn't the room itself, so moving him wouldn't help them, and there really wasn't any place _to_ move him but across the hall into an identical room.

There was nothing different about any of this stuff, she thought. Same type of detergent, unscented Cheer with Colorguard, and they'd changed none of the cleaners. In fact, they hadn't even mopped the floors the day before, so his exposure to the citrus cleaner was even lower. The window was closed, so no other spores could get in, and there wasn't much in the way of dust.

Moira was going through her supplies, looking for a different type of plastic syringe used, or the latex examination gloves, or even the straw from which he'd been drinking more frequently. The water he was drinking was loaded with minerals and electrolytes, flavored a slight punch, and she was thinking about giving him straight, distilled water.

He was utterly miserable, she thought with a sigh, glancing down before stepping carefully off the three-step ladder to the floor, shutting the cabinet doors above her with a frown before leaning on the white Maytag washing machine. She'd seen him today, when she'd washed his hair again, deciding on a bi-weekly routine for it. He didn't have the coordination or the neck strength to do it himself yet, and wouldn't for a few weeks still, Moira had cautioned. She wanted to start him very slowly, fearing he would over-exert himself if she gave him the opportunity.

But he already was, as the allergy only grew worse, and his sneezing was now accompanied by drainage, of a thick yellow variety that indicated he was indeed developing a sinus infection. Not to mention it made him very uncomfortable, and the OTC drugs they'd tried had had little effect. Even the cold medicine, which did not contain antihistamines but should control the symptoms, was less than effective.

And, as they were both discovering, when he was uncomfortable, he was cranky. And now he was alert enough to express it.

* * * * * * *

"Stryfe, A'm not going tae ask ye again! Open yuir mouth and say 'ah'."

He was currently staring at the weapon she held in her hand, a rather innocent looking flat stick of wood, and wishing he had the power to make it burst into flames. Just for the shock effect. "So you can gag me with it again? I think not," he grouched, a bit raspily, and winced at the pain it brought to his throat. She'd been giving him a strange, semi-thick, sweet orange fluid rather simply termed 'orange juice,' that had been helping. But she refused to explain where it came from, after his continued arguments that juice doesn't come from _colors_.

Moira was clearly vexed. "Stryfe..."

He finally opened his mouth, and as she had before, she used the flat strip of wood to smash his tongue down, far back in his throat, and the pull and strain it put on the back of his throat alternately hurt and tickled. He felt a sneeze coming and barely turned his head from the tongue depressor before it arrived, glad it was a single. He'd managed to escape the depressor, which he'd knocked to the floor, but cut his tongue slightly in the process.

"Oath, woman, you know perfectly well what my throat looks like!" he finally growled, too miserable to put much volume into it. "Is _this_ the way twentieth century medicine observes continued illness? No wonder you haven't cured Legacy yet."

At that, she straightened stiffly, arresting her movement to retrieve the depressor and staring at him angrily before realizing with some chagrin that he was testing _her_, these days. Pushing her, to see where her limits lay. And maybe it would be in the best interest of everyone to define those for him. Loudly.

But the psychologist in her knew better, and she smoothed her features with some effort. "A'm looking fur any sign that th' pills are doing ye any good." She'd half think he wasn't taking them, but after watching him inspect them very carefully and swallow them, she knew it wasn't the case. Unless...

"Ye haven't been takin' the pills, have ye." A statement, and a weary one at that. And accurate, as she watched his eyes hood as though physical guards had been drawn over them. "Stryfe, if A meant tae poison ye, A would have done it a long time ago...." And that brought up the uncomfortable question of what he was _doing_ with the pills, if he wasn't swallowing them. There was no place for him to put them, at least not that she could see, unless under his pillow? She'd have seen them there when they changed the sheets, though.

"What have ye done with th' pills, if ye haven't taken them?" He didn't reply, staring at her challengingly, and she sighed. "Yuir only making yuirself more miserable."

Stryfe folded his arms clumsily across his chest. At least he could DO that now, even if it lacked the intimidating quality it should have had. "And why should this bother you?" he retorted.

"It puts ye in a nasty mood, for one thing," she snapped before she thought. "A'm nae sure what reason ye have for making yuirself feel worse than ye must, but tae tell the truth, A think 'tis verra stupid of ye!"

They glared at each other for at least half a minute. "Noo, what are ye doing with the pills? A willnae force ye tae take them, but this is ridiculous."

"Your pathetic efforts at treatment are 'ridiculous'!" Stryfe retorted. He gritted his teeth briefly, partly in anger but more than half in an attempt to persuade his sinuses that he was NOT going to sneeze again. Every now and then it actually worked.

It didn't go unnoticed. She found herself crossing her own arms, a sure sign of closing herself off but she didn't care enough to change position. "Can ye even go an hour without sneezing?" she asked challengingly. 

He clenched his jaw. The answer was no; she knew that perfectly well. And she suspected that he didn't dare open his mouth because he'd simply prove her point. Seconds ticked by and tears began to collect, just slightly, at the corners of his eyes. He squinted. And finally gave up and released the sneeze, followed by its three companions and then a stream of curses with a sound only slightly off some of Cable's more vicious ones.

Moira just nodded, keeping her position. "A thought so," she nearly crowed. "Take the pills, ye stupid Sassenach!" It occurred to her that was really even more appropriate than calling an American the same name, and his confusion quickly fell to annoyance. She glared. "Well? If yuir gonnae swear at me in another language, A'll repay ye in kind!"

That set him to silently glowering, and Moira removed her glasses and heaved a surprisingly large sigh for her small frame. "Look," she finally softened her tone, "the pills will nae do ye harm, that I promise ye. And A've never lied tae ye yet, so can ye take me oath for what it is, an' take the bloody pills?"

Stryfe started to bring a hand up, as if to wipe at his eyes, but dropped it. "No," he said sullenly. "I have no reason to think I can trust you, and if you ARE trying to be helpful you're obviously too incompetent to do any good!"

She didn't bristle. She was a doctor, she had expected this sort of behavior from him. Treat him as you would a child. "How would ye know?" she retorted. "If yuir nae gonnae accept the treatment, then it won't work. It's nae doing good sitting in that cup, Stryfe. Ye've got to _ingest_ it." She allowed herself to be condescending. "A ken it may be a new concept for ye...."

Stryfe made a choked sound, not quite a cough. "Do NOT talk down to me, woman! If you can't think of anything better than these primitive trial-and-error methods--" He broke off with another sneeze, then unfolded his arms after a moment to fumble at the tissue box.

He had difficulty in grabbing things, still -- he hadn't yet managed to hold the cup, and still had to fumble with the straw. He had progressed into making very loose fists -- they simply weren't tight enough to hold anything. It wasn't upsetting yet -- fine motor control would come back as the swelling faded more -- but she worried about the state of his lower back, where the swelling was decreasing more slowly, and his feet, where he had little to no sensation at all.

It really would be a shame if he never regained fine enough control to, say, type or use a pen. Since he was accepting solid food these days, she could tell by his eyes and body carriage that it irked him not to be able to wield the eating utensils himself. He disliked being fed like a child, now, or bathed like one, though he wasn't nearly limber enough to be up to the tasks himself, and he'd shown more than a little disgust upon the discovery of the catheter -- she wasn't sure how the doctors of his time had managed to deal with the usual bodily functions, but apparently not as she was.

He struggled, freeing the tissue from the box but unable to hold it to his own nose, and she finally uncrossed her arms, coming over to hold it and wipe his nose. "Stryfe, A ken that medicine is more advanced from yer home time -- if it werenae, A'd be shocked an' disappointed A'd nae made a lasting impression." She meant it as a joke, but his eyes glared at her. "But A'm doing the verra best A ken, and yuir treatment here be better than any ye'd receive anywhere else in th' world. Try tae have patience until we ken what's causing yuir reaction."

He sniffled even after she pulled the soft kleenex away, defying another sneeze. "Have you even looked," he grated, and stopped to swallow, his whole face contorting with the effort it took. "Oath, there is a limited number of things I'm exposed to -- I don't see how it's possible, even taking into account your intelligence, _not_ to find it!"

She tossed the tissue into the trashcan, trying very hard not to throw it at him, instead. "When ye think ye ken what it is, feel free to let me in on it," she simply murmured, almost smiling. It didn't matter _who_ figured it out, but that the offending substance was removed.

Rahne finished her sorting. She could hear them arguing from the other room, but steeled herself to come in anyway.

Stryfe grimaced. "I'm not exactly in any condition to be running the tests, now AM I?" he snarled bitterly.

Moira slapped her hand down on the bedrail. "Nae, ye hae that right! And ye willnae be anytime soon unless ye turn some of yuir attention tae cooperating with the treatment A _can_ offer instead of trying tae thwart me at every turn! Are ye _trying_ not tae get well?"

"Don't put it off on me! You're the one who's too primitively incompetent to do any good!"

Rahne tried to ignore the scents of anger from both the others, noticing almost in passing that Stryfe's scent carried only a thread of fear, mostly annoyance and obstinacy. Neither seemed to notice her. She retrieved the tongue depressor and began washing it, the splashing of the stream of water playing over Moira's voice.

"Oh, A like that, A do, when ye willnae accept the treatment in the first place! If ye donnae take a medicine it's most certainly nae going to help."

"And can't do any harm either!" He muttered something else, something unintelligible -- or more likely in another language -- that was almost certainly insulting. Rahne gritted her teeth and watched them in her peripheral vision.

Moira leaned over him, eyes hard. "A cannae do ye much more harm than ye managed tae do yuirself!" she snapped. Stryfe looked almost... stricken. He didn't speak again as Moira turned and walked out, shoes clicking softly on the floor.

* * * * * * *

Rahne tried to catch Moira's eye as she briskly crossed the room to the door, but the woman was staring quite resolutely ahead and didn't seem to notice her inquiring look. She listened to Moira tap-tap her way down the hall, her chest slightly constricted with disappointment, and heard one of the lab doors close softly.

She put the tongue depressor down softly after she finished drying it, then just stood there, heels of her hands pressed against the upper edge of the countertop, eyes staring at it without actually seeing it. This... this man who had caused her so much pain already was now verbally _attacking_ her skill as a doctor? He might as well actually hit her, it would have hurt her less! She'd seen Moira doing the same thing, cursing herself as an experiment that had taken months had to be scrapped because she'd made a slight error and the sample had become contaminated.

And while she could do little about Moira berating herself, she could _certainly_ do something about this.

Steeling herself, she ran warm water from the tap, filling a stone basin. It had been about four days, and his hair was filthy again, oily with sweat. She was also supposed to change his sheets today, but she somehow doubted Moira would be up for hauling the man to the anti-grav chamber this afternoon, so she'd have to wait until tomorrow.

Once it was reasonably full, she walked out of the room, towards the linen closet on this level, taking three clean white towels and tucking them under her arm as the detergent caught her eye again. It was the same brand and type as upstairs, unscented, it couldn't possibly be causing it... yet she lifted it. Nearly full, so they'd just recently had to get another one out of storage. Speaking of which, she needed to remind Moira to call the pilot about supplies - there was a lengthy list of things they required, now that they had another mouth to feed, as well as the medical supplies he was consuming, in the form of IV solutions, plastic syringes, etc.

Still staring at the detergent, she gently closed the door. Maybe comparing the labels would...? But no, it would have said "New, Improved!" if they'd changed the content. Sighing again, she walked back into Stryfe's room, pulling one of the towels out from under her arm and approaching him.

He hadn't spoken a word since Moira had snapped and left, but his eyes were open and studying the ceiling intently. He was awake all the day, now, and she could smell pain on him much more often, as he started moving on his own, as Moira forced him through exercises such as sitting up, trying to move his legs, lifting his arms, and very gentle neck exercises. 

As far as she could tell from what Moira murmured at the dinner table - when she managed to make the woman _sit_ at the dinner table - the damage was less at the top of his spine and worse at the bottom, despite the original area of trauma. So while he _could_ cross his arms, however clumsily, he probably couldn't stand yet - and she understood that it must be frustrating.

That didn't give him the right to take it out on the woman that was the only reason he was still alive.

He didn't react much when she picked his head up, taking the pillow and placing the towel beneath his neck. This was the fourth time she'd had to do this for him - maybe the last, if he continued to improve - and he hadn't yet protested it. She said nothing as she laid out the second towel, then put the basin beneath his head and began to wet his hair.

He really wasn't that old, she reflected moodily, wetting the more gray than white hair. He'd had gray hair the entire time he'd been in this century, as had Cable, and she knew them to be around the same age. Which was anywhere from late forties to early sixties; probably fair, therefore, to put him around 55 years old.

Funny, that, when he was acting like he was five.

"Ye had no right tae speak tae her like that," she said softly, wetting every last inch of his lengthening hair before walking over to the counter to fetch the shampoo. By the time she'd turned back around, he'd closed his eyes. She sighed audibly and came back over.

"A ken yuir not ignoring me," she continued, but his very lack of visible interest was taking the strength from her voice. The simple recollection of Moira's set expression as she'd left the room brought it back, fuller than before.

"Has it occurred tae ye that she's the only thing standing between you and a cell?" She poured the liquid soap into her hands, rubbing them together and releasing the relaxing scent of lavender, breathing of it before massaging it into his hair. Despite its filth, once they'd gotten the grime and blood from it and washed it a few times, her gentle care had revealed it to be thick, soft, and healthy. Was there something about telepathy that affected hair? After all, Charles was bald, all three of the Summers' sons had grey hair --even Nate Grey's was streaked with white.

She shooed her mind back to the subject at hand. Threatening wasn't what she intended, but his disrespect and rude behavior toward Moira was going to be addressed, today, now. And changed.

"She doesnae want to harm ye, ye daft man. Why are ye so set on hurting her?"

She didn't expect an answer, and didn't get one, just worked her fingers along his scalp, where the sweat originated, and worked in a careful, clockwise motion around his head. He never moved, neither helping nor hindering her when she lifted his head slightly to get the hair on the back. And nearly dropped it when he spoke.

"Did I?" His voice was cold, but not strongly so, just... empty. "I hadn't noticed."

She _did_ drop his head, glaring into eyes that were glaring right back. "How _dare_ ye say that," she half-cried, quieting with effort, knowing that if she attracted too much attention, Moira would look in on the camera, and she would rather her mum didn't ever know the conversation had taken place. "Yuir nae so stupid as tae actually --"

"Oh, stop whining," he said irritably, closing his eyes again to her heated stare. But they opened again, consideringly. "You wouldn't happen to know _why_ she's standing between me and a cell, would you?"

The question caught her off-guard, and she hesitated before continuing her shampooing. He didn't close his eyes, but he was unable to crane his head far enough back to actually stare at her, so he transferred a somehow... guarded... look to the ceiling. It was a good thing he didn't have any sort of optic-based power, she thought to herself. And then shook her head.

"She doesnae want tae see ye in a prison. I dunnae ken fur th' life of me why, but she doesnae." Rahne began to rinse his hair, laying his head back, and in the process letting him look at her again, which he did. It had to be slightly dizzying, upside down, but if he found it so, he didn't say anything.

He didn't say anything at all, and his sudden silence startled her as much as his speaking had. She continued rinsing the soap from his hair, just as gently, and minutes passed in complete silence. He sneezed suddenly, the noise and his motion making her leap back, still getting splashed, and he fell back against the towel with an almost inaudible moan. She brushed the drops of water from her front, and heard him sniffle, trying to combat the next one.

Rahne hesitated, then gently laid his head in the basin and moved to dry her hands on her slacks, going around him towards the Kleenex box. His hand closed on her upper arm surprisingly strongly, and she nearly yelped, leaping away and breaking his grip much more easily than the initial touch had indicated.

She bit off her angry words at his look, somewhere between angry and curious. "But _why_." His voice was rougher than before, probably due to the sneeze, and anger looked out of place on a face that swollen. He allowed his arm to drop, apparently satisfied in making her jump, and just stared at her.

"Why _what?_ Can ye not conceive of the concept of someone wanting tae help ye just because it's the right thing tae do?!" She tried to lower her voice, not accomplishing it as she continued hotly, "A cannae even say fur certain that it _is_ th' right thing tae do with ye! All ye've brooght tae th' people A ken is suffering an' misery! No one would blame her fur lettin' ye rot yuir life away in that bed, but she's _trying_ tae help ye! The only thing she wants in return is the satisfaction of knowing she helped ye, and you're managing tae take even that away from her!" She turned swiftly, snatching a Kleenex from the box with far more force than was necessary, and softened her gaze as the corrugated mouth of the cardboard box frowned at her.

She also managed to soften her voice, as she looked back into his still-guarded, storm-gray eyes. Well, one, at any rate. "For once, can ye nae ask yuirself why not?"

His look became considering, again. "You hate me," he said, surprisingly softly, considering the condition of his throat. "Why? Because of the way I treat her?" At her silence, his mouth twitched into something that might have been a wry grin. "Or is it because of Legacy?"

She just glared at him, then came over and wiped his nose a great deal more gently than she would have liked. His eyes never left her, unsettling her, and she broke off the contact, throwing away the Kleenex and going back to rinse the last of the shampoo from his hair. She didn't hate him, only yesterday she wouldn't have hesitated to tell him that... but today she was awfully close to active dislike. Was it that simple, then? What about the pain he'd caused Cable? The X-Men? The destruction the MLF had wrought... or was it as simple as Legacy?

Then again, how simple was it, really? The pain Moira felt every time someone else died of Legacy as she worked for the cure, the constant self-reprimand, the long nights working herself to exhaustion, the locking herself away and letting no one stay with her, comfort her -- hardly simple. And how could he sit there, _knowing_ that, and attack her as he had?

Or did he know? Did he realize how much his words had hurt? Did he really _realize_ that his words had struck her, or did he believe that because it didn't show on her face, they really hadn't stung?

He stared up at her, and when she refused to look at him, he spoke again. "I didn't give it to her, you know."

She met his eyes again, glaring down on him, only something in his eyes preventing her from throwing the basin of water in his face. Hadn't given her Legacy! -- maybe he hadn't given an injection, but he had most certainly introduced it -- surely he wasn't blaming Essex for the damage his virus had caused?

Rahne just glared at him, wanting him to laugh, to make it simply another one of the barbs he'd thrown at Moira, to make it obvious that he was only trying to upset her. He didn't, didn't make another sound, just looked at her. 

And she had no idea what to say.

His expression shifted slightly at her silence, and he closed his eyes after a moment, allowing his features to slide into that neutral mask once more, closing the conversation as easily as Moira had. Even though he couldn't stand, he'd left.

Neither spoke as she withdrew the basin, toweled his hair dry, and replaced the pillowcase before placing the pillow beneath his head. She nearly asked him what he meant half a dozen times, but that absolutely blank look on his face, so much like the expression on his face for the first two weeks, stopped her every time.

She washed the basin carefully and replaced it, taking the towels out of his room, hesitating only at the door, for a second, before closing it softly. She didn't stop until she was upstairs.

* * * * * * *


	12. Part 12

_Disclaimer: Fanfiction based on properties of Marvel Comics. No claim is made on their property and no material profit is intended or expected._

****

Ashes of Chaos: Break of Dawn  
by Jaya Mitai and Persephone  
Part 12

Moira was roused from a deep sleep the next morning by an insistent chime. She listened muzzily to it for a moment, trying very hard to connect the noise to a meaning so it would become a signal. It was not the distinctive sound of a medical alarm, because out of trained habit and concern she responded to those even before she was fully aware of being awake, much as she had years ago roused and hurried to Kevin's cradle almost before he could reach full wail. Matter of fact, she usually figured out halfway down the hall that she _was__ responding to a medical alarm, and only then became properly alert and able to analyze situations. _

At any rate, this wasn't one. That established, however sleepily, Moira rubbed at her eyes and pushed herself up onto one elbow, feeling a slight chill as her blanket slid down off her shoulder. Ugh, every muscle in her body felt sore. Not an intrusion alarm, which was a more jarring sound and should have had adrenaline flooding her at once. Not her regular wake-up alarm.... Wrong rhythm for the telephone....

Ah, that was it! Of course. Not the telephone, but someone wanted her on the vidscreen. Moira reached this conclusion triumphantly and rolled to a sitting position, then whacked her pillow in exasperation. A vidscreen call, and she'd be just out of bed. 

On the bright side, anybody who'd be calling her on the vidscreen without an appointment, which she was quite sure whoever this was didn't have, would probably be an old friend -- most likely Xavier or Sean -- or associate, and it wouldn't be an utter disaster if they saw her half awake. 

A dark burgundy bathrobe and quick hair-smoothing later, Moira deemed herself marginally presentable, and finally made her way into the room and jabbed the button to respond to the call.

She'd been looking at a face very like that one for days on end now.

"Nathan! 'Tis good to see you again." She studied the image. Swelling nicely down in the jaw, eyes focused and alert -- more so than hers, at the moment -- and the cuts and bruises essentially gone. Not to mention mobile. _Much__ better. _

"Moira. What's this I hear about you thinking about trying to _treat__ Stryfe psychologically?" Cable began without preamble. "I have enough trouble thinking of you putting him back together physically, but his mind's too far gone, and--" he halted before his rant was fairly begun. "Oath, are you all right? You look exhausted."_

"A'm fine, Nathan. A was just asleep, though, ye got me oot of bed."

"Got you -- Moira, it's 10:00 AM there!"

"Aye, well, A was up a wee bit late last night. And 'tis 5:00 AM there, sae A'm assuming ye had something particular on yuir mind, tae be calling? Ye look much better than when A last saw ye. Of course, if ye dinnae, A'd be worried."

"Oh, _thanks__. Seriously, Moira, you don't look... well. You look exhausted... more so than when I saw you last. Taking care of __him__ and dealing with Legacy at the same time is doing you in, isn't it."_

"Nathan...."

"I can see it, see the toll it's taking--" Moira opened her mouth, and Nathan rushed on. "Don't tell me, you want to 'get through to him', right? To heal his mind as well as his body? Moira, that's suicide!"

"Nathan."

"You don't know what he's like. I do. I've fought him for years, decades, you know that; he's a madman and a monster and he _deserves__ to die! There is no way to 'get through to him,' Moira; if you try he'll only play along and use you as long as he can and __then he will kill you.__ Oath, I know you -- you won't consent to having him executed as he should be, but can't you at least see this is pointless!"_

"Nathan!"

At her more forceful interjection, Cable finally stopped for breath. "Moira, please listen to me...."

"Listen tae _me__ for a moment, Nathan. Ye hae it right, A willnae hae ye cooming here tae kill him." Her accent thickened; she'd managed to wring a burst of wakefulness from the walk to the comm room, but she was still a bit sleepy, not to mention emotional, and her natural speech patterns tended to be exaggerated under those conditions._

"Ye ken perfectly well A've taken an oath that binds me tae help heal a man who's been brought tae me as a patient," she said quietly, but with growing force. "'Tis my duty as a doctor, and in the same way 'tis my duty tae at least try tae heal his mind as well!" 

"Listen to me, Moira! It won't work, it can't. He doesn't want your help or anybody else's!"

She drew a breath and assumed a very reasonable tone. "Nathan, A have a duty tae try. As much tae the rest of the world as tae him, really. If A'm tae restore his body -- which A will -- A'd better be doing my best for all our sakes, his included, sae that he'll be able tae live _in__ the world withoot fighting it for all time." Her tone turned from pensiveness to hint craftily at challenge. "Are ye saying A'm nae competent tae do it?"_

Cable exploded. "NO! Oath, Moira, that's not what I said at all! If anyone _could__ do it I'm sure it would be you, but don't you see he'll __never__ cooperate? He doesn't want help. He doesn't want to live with the world; he wants to destroy it! You're one of my best friends; I don't want to watch you drive yourself to exhaustion and get yourself killed by that oath-forsaken __maniac__ because you decided it was your __duty__ to set off devoting yourself to some impossible, suicidal fool's mission!"_

Moira's lips quirked as she listened to Nathan's concerned tirade crescendo and finally crash to a climactic finale. Listened incredulously -- had he really just said that? -- and yet with almost no surprise. "Nathan? Take yuir foot oot of yuir mouth before ye swallow it," she said gently. He looked at her, mouth opening slightly and brows drawing together in the beginnings of a confused expression. Her voice was soft, half amused, half rueful. "We donnae really like watching ye do the same thing, Nathan. Ye hae verra little room for talk."

She watched as his eyes widened almost comically in dawning comprehension. His mouth opened and closed several times before he shot to his feet, knocking his chair into a backwards skid across the floor, and spouted a stream of profanities in several languages. Moira estimated that about half of them belonged to languages currently extant. Then he stalked aside, right leg clearly dragging a bit, and disappeared from view. 

Moira couldn't help wincing at the crashing sounds from off camera, as the chair collided vigorously with the wall and was then (she hypothesized from the rattling and banging) picked up, shaken, thrown against another wall, and then dashed against the floor for good measure. There was a duller thump somewhere in the mix that might have been Cable losing his balance and catching himself with a shoulder to the wall.

Nathan's image limped back to the vidscreen, and he leaned on the edge of the control panel, breathing heavily, and glowered at her. Moira, being an old friend and of forceful personality herself, was pretty much immune to the glower and would have returned it if she hadn't been interrupted by a yawn. No real venom to this one, anyway, not towards her.

Not like the ones she'd been getting lately.

"I walked right into that, didn't I?" he managed in a rueful tone that contained some quality vaguely resembling an approximation of calm. 

"Aye, that ye did, A'm afraid." She hadn't meant to be quite so provoking, but he'd left such an utterly perfect opening that she'd hardly been able to help herself. 

Cable buried his face in one hand for a moment, leaving the other on the edge of the console for support. He took several deep breaths before turning away and limping out of view again, briefly, to retrieve his maltreated chair and sit in it. Moira was vaguely surprised that it was still in one piece, much less capable of supporting him. He leaned his elbows on the console, laced his fingers under his chin, and looked at her pleadingly. "All right. Point taken. But Moira," he said rather plaintively, desperation coloring his tones, "I _worry__ about you."_

It was much more difficult to resist Nathan when he was being plaintive than when he was being cantankerous. Moira steeled herself. "A'm perfectly fine." That would have been much more convincing, she thought, if not for the yawn that insisted on being yawned directly afterwards. "A'll admit 'tis a wee bit more sleep A should be getting" -- now that was quite a concession, for her -- "but yuir brother's nae up tae doing much of anything at all yet; the worst he can gie me is a tongue-lashing and an evil ee." 

"Oh, for NOW, sure," Cable grumbled. "And he's not my brother," he added with a glare. "What about when you get him up and around again -- which I've no doubt you will -- and he brings the building down around your ears?"

Moira restrained herself judiciously from pointing out that Stryfe had so far done significantly less structural damage to her research facility than either Cable or Nate Grey had done on their respective first visits. It was true, but not terribly relevant; besides, in Cable's case it had been her fault, however unintentional. "There's nae real sign of his powers coming back, and A'm thinking he'd have a wee mite of trouble tearing the place down without them, nae being Samson or the like."

"There's no guarantee his powers WON'T come back, and you know it. Moira, please. It's bad enough watching what you're doing to yourself, but," his voice failed him for a moment before he continued more softly, "I can't bear the thought of what _he__ might do to you."_

"Nathan --" She seemed to keep saying that. The name came more gently to her mouth now, with gray-blue and gold-bright eyes both seeming to plead with her. This time it was almost more an attempt to reassure than to interrupt, and unsurprisingly he barely slowed.

"Whether his powers come back or not, he won't cooperate any more than he thinks he has to do to live. He'll try to trick you; he'll pretend to go along with you. If his telepathy does come back he could, and _would__, mind-control you. Quickly, slowly, either way. He could do just enough to make you believe in him, and fool you, and then break your heart when he showed his true colors again, because I know you'd get involved -- oath, you're already involved; I can see it in the way you're setting your mouth and looking stubborn at me, and don't start in with me about the dirty kitchen implements again -- in wanting him 'well.'" _

She did smile, a little bit, at the sideways approach to the cliché. 

Nathan heaved a deep breath and appeared to shudder slightly. "Or he could make you his mind-slave, to one degree or another," he said bluntly, heavily. "He could use you. Control you. Take away your will and make you a shadow or twisted reflection of yourself, turn you directly against -- your friends or trap us into situations where he can play us against each other. Moira, if you don't care if he hurts you, if he takes away your very _self__, can't you at least think what it would do to the rest of us, or just how much more harm he could do if he forced you to help him?" _

Moira bowed her head against the intensity of his gaze, then raised it and met his eyes steadily. "A ken there tae be risks, Nathan. A cannae deny it, and A thank ye for the warnings. But A'm still bound tae treat his injuries, and A cannae do that responsibly without making an effort tae bring his ideas around as well. A willnae pretend that's only for his sake or only tae make him less of a threat, because A cannae omit either one and still tell the truth. A donnae think the situation's quite as hopeless as ye see it, either."

"You wouldn't," he grumbled. "That's why I'm worried. Not that it's the ONLY reason, or anything. I should fly over there and drag him out and shoot him."

"Donnae even think about it."

"How're you going to stop me?"

"Thinking or doing?"

"Either one."

She looked evasive for a moment. "Ye donnae want tae ken."

He laughed, but not very cheerfully. "Well, that's you all over. He can't have done anything _yet__."_

"Be reassured," she suggested dryly. 

"Why? He hasn't had a chance so far," Nathan returned stubbornly. Then he sighed, looking all at once very tired. "Look, I understand that you think you have to do this. I don't like it one bit. Not one. But I won't come over there to save you from your own folly -- as long as you promise to talk to me at _least__ every week so I can see if you're all right."_

"Agreed," Moira said instantly, then smiled at Nathan's sudden look of suspicion. "Donnae give me that look. Did ye really think A'd object tae yuir keeping in touch for once?"

His face cleared, and he had the grace to look ever so faintly chagrined for a moment. "Then... good." He sighed again. "Actually, I still wouldn't go that far, but we know that. G'journey."

"And the same tae ye, Nathan." She flicked the off switch as he reached for his own, and then sat pensively for a moment in front of the blank screen. After a moment, she stirred and sternly sent herself to the shower instead of first indulging in a cup of coffee.

* * * * * * * *


	13. Part 13

_Disclaimer: Characters and setting are property of Marvel Comics. The plot wandered off from theirs sometime after O:ZT, and after Stryfe came back but before the Blood Brothers crossover. We make no claim on their property and neither expect nor intend material profit resulting from this story._

**Ashes of Chaos: Break of Dawn  
by Jaya Mitai and Persephone  
Part 13**

Moira dragged herself from sleep with some effort, glaring blearily at the ceiling before cursing loudly and sitting up hastily, still in her bathrobe with a towel on her head. It was still damp; she'd only been asleep a few hours -- and here I thought I was laying me down for a wee rest before I...

Checked on my patient...

She sprang from the bed more sluggishly than she would have liked, dressing herself quickly and cursing as things went wrong -- her sock was slightly unraveling and caught her toenail, her shoes refused to be put on, her hair refused to sit correctly after a quick blow-dry and brush...

And to top it off, as she hurried down the stairs, she managed a jaw-cracking yawn. This was ridiculous...

Down the stairs, past the labs -- thank the Lord above she hadn't been doing anything that needed immediate attention -- and to her camera, to view Stryfe. By now, actually, he might be wondering at the break in routine... she wondered oddly if he thought she might carry a grudge. His life signs seemed calm, not elevated, but that didn't mean much.

Rahne had seen to him, och, what a lovely, thoughtful lass she was, and he was currently staring at the camera, as if able to sense her eyes. He didn't appear to have moved much, but there was evidence he'd eaten whatever Rahne had brought him. He tended to prefer eating things she brought, and Moira hadn't yet figure out if that was because he preferred the dishes, or he was trying to make a statement.

Or he seriously thought she was trying to harm him, still.

She shook her head in disgust at the thought, noticing a coffee mug left over from last night. She picked it up and sniffed -- not too old. She sipped the room-temperature contents and looked at the remarks she had in Post-It notes around the monitor.

Closes eyes -- removing himself, denying or an attempt to replace his telepathic shield.

Turns away -- classic avoidance. Anger? Not his usual style...

Speaks -- to alleviate fear or mask it.

Stares -- thinking

Which still didn't explain why he was still afraid. Rahne had only confirmed it recently, but he was _still_ afraid of her! After all this time, nearly three weeks... and had his lashing out yesterday afternoon been a symptom of fear... or simply the habit of an acid tongue kicking in to hide his vulnerability? For she was sure he was more aware of it now than when he literally had been at their mercy. Now, if he felt like resisting the examinations and exercises, he could.

And he didn't. He did everything she told him to, despite the pain, took probably about a third of the vitamins, and generally ate what was given to him. She wasn't worried about malnutrition anymore -- she gave him his vitamins via shot these days, which he didn't like one bit but accepted, and for some reason, he trusted the food more than he did the pills.

Which made little sense, considering it would be just as easy to hide a drug or poison in spaghetti as it would Tylenol.

She shook her head, rubbing her eyes gingerly, surprised at how strained they still felt. Since that nap, she'd gotten at least five hours, it would be enough, it would _have_ to be enough.... Her fingers felt rough, the skin on the web between thumb and forefinger chapped and scaling. She'd have to see to that with lotion; she'd been washing her hands even more frequently, having a patient... she'd been doing a lot of things more frequently, and she hadn't yet decided whether it was a strain or a welcome change.

If only he'd learn to trust them! If only he would accept her offer for what it was... she half wished he hadn't burned himself out so completely. That spike in brain activity hadn't been repeated in the time she'd been specifically watching his brainwaves, and she'd have to hook up the equipment again to see if it ever was -- and if it wasn't, now wasn't the time to nurture and dash that hope. Not when he was finally _responding_ to them!

Grabbing a clipboard out of habit, she clicked her soft way towards his room, stopping only to make sure her equipment was still functioning normally, the refrigeration units still operational, and her computer systems working. It was all habit, and took her a little under three minutes, giving her the peace of mind necessary to start what she knew would be the first day of his mental therapy.

Stryfe turned his head, watching her come in, then turned back towards the ceiling rather casually, and Moira tried not to smile to herself. She had snapped, what was called for was an apology -- she _had_ gotten the last word yesterday, let her emotion get the better of her. There was to be no lying to Stryfe, certainly not from now on.

"How are ye today, Stryfe? Have ye taken the initiative to move yuirself around a wee bit, or did ye wait for Rahne to come and help ye?"

He didn't deny that he needed help, as she would have thought, just stared at the ceiling, before ever, ever so slowly bringing his hands up and folding them beneath his head. Which proved that he'd been doing quite a bit of stretching -- and that had to have hurt a great deal, as the undermuscles of his arms hadn't been stretched at all when she'd been present. She hadn't thought him ready to extend his arms above and behind his head yet.

"Well, then, A take it ye have," she said, gently and approvingly. "Dunnae push too hard, though. Ye won't be happy if ye pull a muscle."

He turned to look at her, again with a strangely... void expression. "Who said I was happy?"

Moira tried not to change expression at all. What _was_ he up to? Back into that depression. "Dunnae start down that road, Stryfe, ye're making this hard enough on yuirself as it is."

Stryfe turned back to the ceiling, hands still cushioning his head, as if he was looking at stars or fluffy clouds in curious shapes. "I wasn't aware I was starting down any road, doctor." He blinked, lazily, and continued. "And to answer your question, yes, Rahne came and took care of me." Biting sarcasm, at the end... as though for having to admit that that was what she was doing, and he required it. But there was something else....

"Good for her, then." Moira crossed to lean over him and check his sinuses. She had to find that allergen, and soon. "A shouldnae have snapped at ye earlier, Stryfe. A apologize."

He pulled away from her gentle examination of his sinuses and the nodes on his neck, now using his hands to bat her away clumsily. "They're just as painful as they were the last time," he growled, breaking his emotionless mask. "Oath, woman, use your _eyes!_" She ignored him and his attempts to force her away, and after a moment, he ceased.

Ceased physically trying to drive her away, at least.

"And of _all_ things, you apologize for _snapping_ at me?" A low, guttural chuckle. "That was the first truly helpful thing you've done for me."

Moira didn't snap, but did scribble down his comment on the clipboard, noticing his attention sharpen. Though one usually used this tactic in an interrogation, not a therapy session. She was beginning to think they might become one and the same, with this man. "Oh? Sick of being bored, were ye? It was yuir choice tae keep silent, like it was yuir choice to nae eat or drink when ye first came here."

A reminder of her statement yesterday made him smile. "Not so sorry that you won't remind me again, I see. But then, you're one of Cable's acolytes, these days, and 'sorry has no meaning.'" He said it almost mincingly, not changing the pitch of his voice, but the undertones...

She slid the pen into its holder on the clipboard and tapped him sharply on the end of the nose with one finger. For an instant he looked almost stunned. "Ye seem tae need reminding, and an acolyte, indeed! Where ye got that notion A have _nae_ idea, and ye speak it as if ye were a taunting bairn."  
  
She nearly grinned at his bewilderment. He wanted an argument, obviously, in order to push her away, admitting verbally that he needed help without wanting to have to accept it. Classic, actually. Not at all surprising. It was a little... disappointing, actually, that nineteenth and twentieth century psychology was so applicable on a mind from the fortieth century, with all the complexity of the future.

"Now, how do ye feel? Well enough tae sit up for a wee bit? Maybe ten minutes, no more, tae give yuir back a workout?"

He glared at her as she moved to help him, grabbing the bedrails with his hands, instead. His hands had become more and more able to grab things and hold them; dangerous, when close to him, but he'd never threatened her with physical harm, nor Rahne, to her knowledge. He used them as well as his abdominal muscles to heave himself upright, then letting go and allowing his weight to settle. His legs were bent, as she had forgotten to do that long week before, and his breathing sounded only slightly elevated.

The pulse monitor was telling her something else entirely.

She then scribbled something else on the clipboard, something useful. Was his heart rate due to pain? Was he anxious about showing off? _Was_ he showing off, or was he trying to demonstrate his ability to take care of himself? Was he capable of taking care of himself? She'd have to see him walk, first, and maybe today he was ready to stand, just maybe....

She then put it down, guiding her positively glowering patient through exercises. She had him draw increasingly large circles with his arms, slowly. She had him flex his arms, she had him reach toward the ceiling, now that he seemed able. When had he stretched those? She'd have to watch the tapes of him during the night... no. No, it was better to be surprised, genuinely surprised, so he would feel confident enough to make more strides when he felt he was ready, without fear of their watching his every stumble and fall.

"Ye've improved greatly in yuir flexibility," she noted, with no small approval in her voice. He needed positive reinforcement, and while his iron-hard face never wavered, she knew he'd think on her words later. So he had discarded his depression for the stoic, petulant child mask again. He felt confidant in it, because that mask would allow him to talk himself into believing he didn't need their help, he was merely allowing them to help him, using them, until he was fully capable again.

She wasn't sure if the depression would have been any more dangerous to him. Or them.

He had displayed no previous discomfort or embarrassment at her rather brisk examinations of his body, and didn't now, as she pulled back the sheet in order to test the response in his lower legs and feet. Still numb, in most places, or had been the last time; she was hoping the light exercise might stimulate the nerves here more quickly. He could move every muscle down to his toes, it would be a shame if he never regained feeling there.

Of course, once she had him walking around, she'd have to give him a gown, as it wouldn't be necessary to keep such a strict eye on his heart and lungs, but she'd rather not add anything to his environment until she'd nailed that bloody allergen! They'd checked the detergent, cleaning solutions, intravenous solutions, air, air filter, everything. Change in food did nothing, removing the blanket she'd given him last week did nothing. Nothing alleviated his symptoms, though the antibiotics had done their work, controlling the infection and fever. Furthermore, he was building a tolerance to it, so his sneezes came less frequently, but she was afraid that only marked the beginning of a deep-chest problem that could take him right back down to square one, health-wise.

She shook that off, tapping each of his toes with her penlight, watching them fail to twitch in response. But he could curl them and spread them apart, which meant, luckily, the spinal damage done was minimal, surprisingly so. He was lucky, he would do far more than regain his ability to walk. She didn't start getting reflexive twitches until near his ankle, and he nodded curtly as she looked questioningly at him, tapping his knees.

"A think ye should be ready tae stand," she said briskly, sliding the penlight into her labcoat and collapsing one of the bedrails. His look had gone from glowering to considering, and she forced herself not to hesitate at that. She helped him swing his legs off the bed, then half-sat on it herself, their difference in height making it easy for her to slide his arm comfortably around her shoulder. If he wanted to physically attack her, he wasn't going to get a much better opportunity.

Though her Scots Guard training would make it a very _abbreviated_ attack, at this point. Rahne would still be scolding her for this.

"Up ye go," she grunted, sliding them both off the bed to the floor. His knees immediately attempted to give, and hers as well as she was forced to support a great deal of weight. His other hand was braced on the bed, and his breathing... she should have given him something for the pain. Still, this position was much like sleeping; at least he wasn't having to deal with pulling muscles.

He fought to keep his knees under him, whole body shaking with the effort as legs that simply had not been used to supporting any weight at all were forced to hold up his body. Even though he probably weighed fifteen to twenty pounds less than he did at the time of the attack, it was still too much. She tried to straighten a bit, give him a better angle with which to use her as support, and he shifted suddenly, away from her, mistaking her intention and moving to support all his weight on his other arm -- which was also not up to the task.

His knees gave, and Moira held onto his arm for dear life as he caught himself on the bed with his elbow, barely keeping himself from sliding further. Sweat was standing out on his forehead, slicked the palm that wasn't strong enough to actually hang onto her as she staggered against the bed, and his breathing rasped in the sudden, tense silence.

"Whoa, Stryfe, easy --" It would be next to impossible for her to get him off the floor if he fell, not to mention any damage it might do to still-numb legs.

He growled something in that strange language, pretty much what Cable occasionally lapsed into, his voice strained with effort as he moved to force legs that simply were too tired to straighten. She scooted closer to him, able to better support more of his weight, and her back popped loudly in protest. Under his left arm, she could feel his heart pounding beside her, almost in a half-time pulse to the trembling of his frame. Between the two of them, they just managed to get his waist about mattress height, and with a grunt and a hissed breath, she tipped him back, just enough of his weight over the bed to keep him from sliding off.

She leaned down quickly anyway, swinging trembling legs back onto the bed as he lay there, his breathing fast and shallow, eyes closed and mouth slightly open. He sneezed twice, a tiny moan in there somewhere, before he pulled a badly-shaking hand to his face, wiping his nose. She clucked and grabbed a Kleenex, wiping away the moisture as he dropped his hand to his chest, where it rose and fell quickly.

"That's more than enough for today. Ye did well."

A guttural chuckle, when he had breath enough for it. "Well? You call almost falling flat on my face well?"

"Ye supported more than three quarter of yuir own bodyweight, an it's been three weeks since yuir legs had weight tae support... ye'll be standing without support by the end of the week."

He had gained some control of his breathing back, with no evidence of wheezing, but chose not to respond, eyes still closed. After a moment she covered him back up with the light sheet, only up to his mid-chest. She didn't need him sweating too badly after his ordeal, but she didn't want him getting chilled, either.

"And ye wouldnae hae lost yuir balance if ye hadnae flinched when A moved. What did ye think A was doing, ye daft man?" She shook her head as she moved to get his water bottle, not noticing his eyes open and glower at her.

"I thought you were moving," he said in measured tones, keeping the glare as she turned and saw his eyes. She rolled her own.

"Och, yes, A was going tae just walk away and leave ye tae sink or swim as ye pleased?" She plopped the bottle on the table and swung it over his abdomen, half to make it easy to reach and half to convince him to stay lying down. However, water appeared to be the last thing on his mind, and his eyes abruptly... flickered, for a brief instant.

"Why not? Apocalypse would have."

Moira was stunned nearly speechless. Was he so tired, that he was finally going to give her an inkling of his past? That he was willing to open up, just for the moment? She mentally filed the comment away, her mouth plowing right on ahead.

"Do A look like Apocalypse tae ye? If so, it was nae my intention." Tired herself, she leaned on the edge of the bed, folding her arms on the table. "A'm not yuir keeper, Stryfe, A'm yuir healer. And ye're going tae hae tae give me some sort of trust if we're going tae get anywhere with ye."

Whatever had flickered in his eyes was gone, and in its place... anger. The moment, whatever it had been, was over, and Moira mentally kicked herself. What had she said wrong? Why had he slipped back into the old mask? And what had brought him out in the first place?

"Trust?" A tired laugh. "You expect me to _trust_ you? Friend of Cable, former love of Xavier? The only thing I _trust_ you to do is hand me over to them when you've finished with me." His tone was growing increasingly bitter, and Moira leaned forward quickly. No ye dunnae, ye bloody idiot. A'm nae letting ye back into that depression.

"Finished with ye? What is it ye think A'm gonnae do tae ye? Why are ye so afraid of me?" Her tone was intense but low, her volume soft. Again, something changed in his eyes.

"Afraid of you?" He shook his head in disgust. "Don't flatter yourself. I'm not... stupid enough to believe your drivel about it being your _duty_ to help me. You _want_ something in return." Steel eyes, both of them, though one still shone pale gold.

Pale gold that, unless she was mistaken, was glowing, ever so slightly --

She pulled her eyes away from it quickly, lest he notice. She'd need to analyze his mind again, maybe another CAT scan --

"And I'm not going to start trusting you until I know what it is."

She threw back her head and laughed. Laughed long and sourly. "Oh, is that all? Why didnae ye say it in th' first place? Stryfe, ye ken what A want? A want tae see ye walk on th' cliffs an' stare out at the ocean. A want it tae bring ye peace, and A want tae see ye willing tae undo all the damage ye've done yuirself over the years. A want tae see ye laugh because something made ye happy. A want tae see ye doin' normal things, like shopping at th' grocery store an' falling in love with some fair lady and living in a nice house that ye bought for pocketchange an' fixed up yuirself.

"A want tae see ye proud of something, really proud. An' dunnae ye dare tell me yuir proud o' Legacy or what ye've made o' Cable, I ken that isna true. A want tae see ye confident enough tae believe in yuirself. A want tae see ye walking in the sunlight, and A want tae see Charles and Cable and yuir parents watching ye, proud of the steps ye've taken. You mentioned Apocalypse, what he would hae done. Ye hate him, I ken that. Why are ye letting him destroy ye even now?"

She'd gotten through on some level, but mention of Apocalypse and her words snapped a guard down around him as surely as if he'd erected a TK shield. So, he knew it was true, on some level, or it wouldn't have affected him. She made another mental note, even as his lips twitched and he bared his teeth.

"Somehow, I don't think Apocalypse is the reason I can barely move, woman."

Her voice was mild. "Have A harmed ye, Stryfe? Have A done anything at all besides do me best tae make ye better?"

"You call this better?" His tone was acidic, and he leaned up a bit. "Or did you miss the fact that it's been three _weeks_ and the best I can do is lie in this bed!"

Her tone became a little harsher. "Oh, so yuir accusing me o' doing me best tae keep ye from getting better, then --"

"If you're trying to help, you're doing a poor job!"

Moira stopped and stared at him, disbelievingly. "Ye -- och, A wouldnae hae pegged ye for an idiot! If A wanted tae harm ye, do ye nae think A'd hae managed it by noo! Not that ye wouldnae _deserve_ it," she growled. "But 'tis my place tae be healing ye. 'First do nae harm,' A swore, and A do the best A can tae carry it oot as a doctor!"

Stryfe raised his head, eyes blazing. "'First do no harm,'" he said mockingly, though the words caught hoarsely in his throat. "Magneto. Proteus, for that matter. Can you say you didn't harm them? Your oath is shattered; you're worse than the healer-torturers Apocalypse employed; at least they acknowledged what they really did!"

Moira reeled back as if he'd actually reached out and slapped her, sliding off the bed and to her feet without even realizing it. "If ye have pain, don't hesitate tae press the grey button," she managed, almost formally, before walking stiffly from the room. And catching sight of Rahne's somewhat guilty-looking face, leaning against the corner of the door.

"Ye ken better than tae listen in when A'm talking tae patients, Rahne," she said, more angrily than she meant, and her heart nearly broke as she saw Rahne flinch. But she couldn't bring herself to say another word, let alone apologize, and stopped to lay a hand on the girl's shoulder before continuing down the hall, head still held high.  
  
* * * * * * *


	14. Part 14

__

Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction based on products and properties of Marvel Comics. No material profit is expected or intended.

**Ashes of Chaos: Break of Dawn  
by Jaya Mitai and Persephone Chapter 14**

Rahne dumped the light load into the washer, pausing to fish out the bras and put them in a zippered netting bag to keep them from getting tangled around the light khakis. Moira had gone back to sleep after her shower, she must have been exhausted, and Rahne was glad -- and just maybe her conversation with Stryfe had gotten through. He hadn't said much this morning, only asked her what was in the oatmeal that made it taste the way it did.

He hadn't had cane sugar, in his future?

Shaking her head, she reached up for the detergent. What could his future have been like, if he hadn't had cane sugar? What had he eaten, and would he tell her? Perhaps some more traditional meals would set him at ease? He'd been positively _wary_ of the oatmeal, as if he expected it to leap out of the bowl and attach itself to his face like some sort of parasite... 

No, that was ridiculous. Oatmeal-shaped parasites.

She poured exactly a cup in -- they still hadn't called for supplies, she'd better do it this afternoon -- and was screwing the cap on when the scent of the unscented detergent caught her attention. It smelled like detergent, yes, but...

Curiously, she started the washer and carried the detergent with her, downstairs, to the second set of washing appliances, and got out the stepping-stool. She reached overhead, opening the wooden cabinet, and pulled out an identical bottle. They were both the same in labels, down to the flavor and sequence in which the ingredients were labeled. But...

The smell was faintly different. She shifted further into wolf-form, sniffing again at the nauseatingly sweet smell of them, and... no, it wasn't her imagination. The formula was different, and that might very well be the problem, since she was still using an older bottle upstairs, and the one downstairs had been recently changed...

She capped them both, remembering which was which, and headed immediately to Stryfe's room, where she could hear Moira talking. They'd both be thrilled, she was sure, and at least they could finally make Stryfe more comfortable...

"... A want to see ye laugh because something made ye happy." Rahne stopped at the doorway, hesitating, as Moira went on in a very... gentle voice. "A want to see ye doing normal things, like shopping at the grocery store and falling in love with soome fair lady an' living in a nice house that ye bought fuir pocketchange and fixed up yuirself..."

Rahne smiled in the shadow of the doorway. So Moira had finally gotten Stryfe to open up, had she? Though she couldn't quite picture some of those... Still, she knew better than to disturb her when she was making progress, and started to back away, silently, still shifted into wolf-form enough to have sideburns and slightly pointed ears to walk that softly. It could wait until Moira left the room, at any rate... and she should probably get all his sheets today and do the wash, get rid of it as soon as possible.

She paused outside Moira's lab, then backtracked for the detergent. They might want to find out which particular ingredient Stryfe was allergic to, just for knowing's sake.... It was only because she was in a slightly transitional form that she heard Stryfe's bitter voice.

"Somehow, I don't think Apocalypse is the reason I can barely move, woman."

She hesitated again. Moira could handle herself with a rude Stryfe just fine, she was sure, but perhaps it would keep both of them from snapping again if she was in there? Moira would watch her mouth, that was certain... and this didn't count as therapy. She was more than halfway down the hall before she heard Stryfe raise his voice.

"If you're trying to help, you're doing a poor job!"

She shook her head, angrily. Onto the same argument! He knew better, he was trying to anger her on purpose! What end did that serve? Much as she wanted to walk in, she hesitated again. Moira might be able to head this off on her own, and furthermore, if she had learned of the conversation yesterday, Moira might be angry for her interference.

And she lingered in the doorway, just listening.

"Ye -- och, A wouldnae hae pegged ye for an idiot! If I wanted to harm ye, do ye nae think I'd hae managed it by now! Not that ye wouldnae _deserve_ it," she growled. "But 'tis my place to be healing ye. 'First do no harm,' I swore, and I do the best I can to carry it out as a doctor!" She sounded angry, now, and Rahne winced, made up her mind to walk in, started -

"'First do no harm,'" he said mockingly, though the words caught hoarsely in his throat. "Magneto. Proteus, for that matter. Can you say you didn't harm them? Your oath is shattered; you're worse than the healer-torturers Apocalypse employed; at least they acknowledged what they really did!"

Rahne instantly darted back, unable to keep her gasp contained, and prayed in the sudden silence they hadn't heard her. What he'd just said... she wouldn't be surprised if Moira hit him. How could he be so cruel?? You didn't have to be a telepath to know that throwing her own _son_ in her face would hurt her -- how could he have said that to her?!

"If ye have pain, don't hesitate to press the grey button," she heard Moira say, and before she could safely scuttle away, Moira had already covered half the distance to the door. Knowing she was going to get caught either way, Rahne shifted into a nearly human form and tried not to look too guilty as Moira came around the door.

Moira's eyes were not shining with unwept tears, but Rahne could smell the guilt and pain rolling off the woman. Anger, too, and it only sharpened at seeing her. "Ye ken better than to listen in when I'm talking to patients, Rahne," she snapped, already moving to go around her, and Rahne hid her hurt and flinch as quickly as she could. Moira didn't mean it, she thought to herself firmly. She was just upset that I heard what that . .. that monster had said to her.

Moira did pause, not apologizing but putting her hand on Rahne's shoulder, giving it a little squeeze before she headed down the hall, her carriage conflicting with her scent. Och, Moira... 

Rahne stayed there, until after Moira had retreated to a lab, caught between going to the woman and hugging her and going into the room she was just outside of and strangling the patient that had dared to hurt her so terribly. Had she been speaking to a wall, yesterday? Was he really no better, just a bitter man, out to do whatever damage he could, even bedbound?

But his scent was just as anxious, and hurt, and scared, more frightened than he had been for several days. What on _earth_ was the man thinking? She wanted to go in there and shake him until he told them what was frightening him so, make him understand that Moira only wanted to _help_ him! She turned in frustration, unsure what to do, and caught sight of the detergent, sitting on the washing machines. And she headed to the lab.

* * * * * * *

Precise, measured steps carried Moira briskly through the corridors to her work laboratory. She was aware of Rahne, still almost huddled against the outside of Stryfe's doorway, but only in the back of her mind. She turned the corner, so close her sleeve brushed the edge of the wall and the corner of her lab coat slapped against it. Reaching the door, she pivoted slightly and held out her hands before her.

Very deliberately, Moira uncurled each of her fingers from her fists, and massaged the cramps from each before rubbing at the red indentations where her nails had dug into the flesh of her palm. The skin was unbroken on her left hand; on her right, two of the crescents had slits in one layer at the inner curve, the deepest part. No blood. 

She turned the handle and pulled the door open. It fell shut behind her as she crossed to a cabinet and, for safety's sake, applied a thin polymer bandage that sealed off the wound.

Magneto. Proteus for that matter. The words echoed in her mind.

What about Magneto? What about Proteus?

The door opened again as she smoothed the bandage and reached for the box of latex gloves.

"Mum, I dinna mean --"

She could not deal with this right now. "Ye went listening at doors and ye dinna like what ye heard."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Rahne lower her head slightly. She'd hurt the girl, she knew it, but....

Rahne sighed softly. "I dinna plan to eavesdrop, and I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do to help now?"

"Ye can get out of my way. I hae work to do." Her voice was brusque, the words too harsh. The lump in her dry throat threatened to choke off words entirely. 

What about Proteus?

"Mum, I ken he upset ye, but --"

"Then ye ken I donnae care to discuss it!" she snapped, brushing past the girl to reach the other side of the laboratory and picking up a clean, narrow, spatula to transfer a few flecks of what she hoped was finally a purified compound into an NMR tube. She had a whole series of separated substances to test, isolated samples arrayed neatly in a line under the hood.

Rahne watched for a moment in silence, then set down a bottle of detergent she was carrying for some reason, and began at the other end of the row. As the younger woman carefully finished a third preparation, Moira glanced to the side and whirled on her. 

"That's the wrong solvent. I'll have to redo those." She had enough to do, and far too much to think about, without this. Moira splayed her fingers flat against a counter as they tried to curl up again. 

"It's the standard one I used," Rahne protested. 

"That's nae right for this. Would ye kindly either think or ask before ye do?" She wasn't being fair, and her heart ached with that knowledge too as her daughter's lips tightened and paled.

"I'm sorry, Mum." She pecked Moira lightly on the cheek. "If ye'll excuse me...."

The door swung again, and as it softly closed Moira turned back, discarded the botched samples and cleaned the tubes automatically.

What about Proteus? What about Kevin?

She kept working.

* * * * * * * 

Rahne excused herself in a murmur, giving Moira a quick kiss on the cheek before she slipped out and into the hallway and closed the door gently. Once safely out of sight, she began walking more quickly, shoulders tense, until she was nearly running as she entered her own room and shut her door with force just short of a slam.

"Laird, grant me patience with both of them and if Ye dinna mind I think I'll be needing it verra quickly."

The rapid-fire request for "More patience, right now, please!" made the girl half-smile at herself as she flopped down to a kneeling position beside her bed and put her head down on her clasped hands. She continued, no more softly -- she'd been muttering half under her breath already -- but a bit more calmly.

Still, with the emotion, the Scots accent of her childhood came back more strongly than it had while she was away in America with people who didn't talk like that.

"Och, Father... I love the Lady Moira dearly, Ye ken that. Sometimes that only seems to make this harder, though. Watching her work sae hard, and being able to tell when she's in pain even though she sometimes almost doesnae seem to notice it herself.... She loves her work, I ken, please forgive me for the times I've wondered if she preferred it to me."

She had, once in a while, had even confronted Moira about it. Moira loved her, though, even when they were across the ocean from each other. Rahne had been under a lot of stress at the time, and in X-Factor, and Moira had been very busy with her research....

"'Tis watching her with Stryfe that's sae frustrating -- she's trying sae hard to help him, and he willnae see it! I _hate_ watching him growl and snap and sulk at her when she's giving her time and working on his behalf after what he's done to her.... Sure, he's in pain, I ken, I can scent it well enough, but _so is she_!"

Rahne drew a long breath. "And Father, I shouldnae lose my temper at her either. She has plenty of reason to be out of temper. Thank You for helping me nae speak sharply today, and please help me to be sweet and patient when I go back."

Someone needed to remain gentle, after all. She was here to help look after Moira, and for that matter she suspected Stryfe had never spent much more time around someone honestly trying to be _nice_ than he had receiving caring scoldings.

Fighting spirit back in its proper role, Rahne whispered a final "Thank You, Amen," and walked back out of her room to help her mother.

* * * * * * *

What about Proteus? What about Kevin? What about the boy you couldn't save?

Moira moved mostly by habit, following the instructions she'd written to herself.

What about Kevin? What about your _son_, Moira?

It didn't seem long at all -- in fact, it wasn't -- before she heard a tap at the door. She drew a long breath. "Come in."

What about the daughter who lives and loves and needs you now? And whom you love? Her heart softened.

Rahne pushed the door open, appearing much more composed than when she'd left. 

Moira set down the glassware she held and peeled off the thin gloves. "Och, Rahne, I'm sorry I spoke as I did. Will ye forgive me?" The words came harder than they should have, but she knew they needed to be said.

Rahne relaxed visibly and held out her arms for a hug as Moira approached. "Donnae worry -- and of course." Moira felt her heart ease, just a little, as Rahne's arms folded around her shoulders. "Is there anything I can help with, though?"

"No in the lab -- if ye could do a load of the wash, though, 'twould be a help." She pulled away as Rahne nodded and picked up the bottle of detergent again, weighing it in one hand.

"I just did one, actually."

Moira cut her off before realizing the girl had intended to say something more. "Aye, well, perhaps another one -- I'm sure ye can find something, but I'll manage on my own in the lab."

She did feel better for having apologized, but hurried her daughter out nonetheless. And as soon as Rahne had left, Moira locked the door.

* * * * * * *

Rahne leaned against the door, rather frustrated. Well, she _would_ go do another load. She would wash some sheets in the old detergent, the variety that she didn't suspect of causing Stryfe's symptoms. It was a bit tempting to let him suffer a little while longer, but she really shouldn't. She tried the door, gently, and discovered that the sound she'd heard had indeed been the lock. Moira didn't come open it, either.

Fine. She would wash and change the sheets, which could hardly do any harm even if it should happen to do no good, and then she would try again to tell Moira her hypothesis. Somehow, she hadn't quite managed to get the words out so far, and she just wasn't going to shout through the door.

* * * * * * *

The spectrum was telling her absolutely nothing.

It wasn't for lack of trying. There was nothing at all wrong with the hydrogen NMR spectrum itself; it was in fact the first really good one she'd obtained on this particular compound, a carbohydrate attachment of one of the Legacy component proteins. Nice, sharp, well-defined peaks. A few related ones to round out the information -- carbon NMR, that sort of thing -- and she might be able to get enough of a structure to feed into her modeling software. Too bad she couldn't use the Shi'ar scanner-modeler she'd once had available, but it had been back with the X-Men for some sort of maintenance or upgrade when Bastion went through.

Of course, producing any sort of model would require some sort of intelligent interpretation of the data! 

Moira gave up, filing the papers for later analysis as she realized she'd been staring at them for at least twenty minutes with no progress, and forced her attention to flipping open her lab notebook and following the instructions she had written out for herself. She recorded her actions and measurements meticulously, but after another ten minutes she stopped, unnerved, and stared at the test tube in her hand.

She didn't remember what she'd put in it. 

This was not good.

She set the test tube down, stared at it and its brethren, and emptied and cleaned them all into the biohazard waste. Running tests on them _now_ would be foolish, as nonexistent as she'd just proved her concentration to be, and she wasn't testing for anything that stored well. It was chilling to think she'd been operating on autopilot, so to speak, in the laboratory. 

Her hands were shaking.

Furious with herself for allowing that, Moira carefully closed and put away her laboratory notebook and sat down on a stool, resting her elbows on a clean counter and spreading her fingers until they stopped trembling. 

She knew exactly why she couldn't concentrate. She had been trying to lose herself in her work, to avoid thinking about precisely the things that crowded into her mind now.

What about Magneto? What about Proteus? 

"Magneto. Proteus for that matter. Can you say you didn't harm them?" Stryfe's words echoed in her thoughts.

It wasn't so much Magneto's fate that pricked her conscience. She had done her best for him -- including an attempt to repair genetic damage from a viral infection which she could only surmise had been contracted during his time in Auschwitz. It allowed his powers to distort the electrical fields within his brain in ways not in accordance with proper functioning, and there was strong evidence this phenomenon was in some way implicated in much of his erratic, violent, and irrational behavior since manifestation. 

Left unattended, when next his powers manifested as he grew up again, the damage would very likely have killed him.

His rapid restoration to adulthood might have destabilized the repairs. It might not. She had never had the opportunity to check, after his actions began to suggest the possibility. 

If he had grown up again normally -- or with as much semblance of the normal process as was possible, given that he'd been older than she was before Mutant Alpha reduced him to infancy -- her alterations should have allowed his powers to develop without physiological threat to his life or sanity. It had been an experimental procedure of necessity, but the alternative was unacceptable.

She could hardly have predicted the re-aging. It was entirely possible that the process had somehow circumvented everything she'd tried to do. There was no real way to tell for certain unless Magneto let her run tests -- and considering his reaction to discovering she'd performed any manipulations at all, no matter what her motive, Moira was less than optimistic about the possibility of obtaining consent to see if they had worked or not.

Magnus had stormed at her that she'd taken away his free will. If she'd had a chance, she would have retorted that if anything she had tried to give it back to him. 

Magnus wasn't the one who haunted her with guilt and doubt at night. She regretted the way things had turned out, and the accusations stung -- worse perhaps from Rahne than from Magneto himself -- but she had done the best she could and the best she knew, and as far as she could see there was nothing she would have changed, given the chance. With the noticeable exception of the communications and miscommunications afterward.

And Magnus was still alive.

Moira stopped studying her hands and brought one up to her face, curling the fingers and propping her head against it. Cold, she noted absently. Her hands were cold too often lately; she seemed to be losing the easy resistance to low temperature that she'd grown up with. A circulation problem, or core metabolism...?

She extended her fingers again to rub at her temple, shaking her head at herself. She was, she recognized ruefully, half-deliberately shying away from the topic. The real one. The real reason she was upset, the real reason her hands wouldn't steady, the real reason she'd gone so far beyond her usual outspoken abrasiveness and snapped at Rahne as she had. 

Well, aside from the fact that keeping her temper around Stryfe was starting to get to her. Maybe Nathan had been right, at least partially, when he'd said the toll on her would be too much even if Stryfe _didn't_ turn on her.

No.

That was not the case; it was not going to be the case. She knew perfectly well that rehabilitating Stryfe physically _or_ psychologically would be a draining process alone, and that as rewarding as it would be, doing both would require a commitment of more time, and patience, and strength than perhaps anything else she'd ever done except... motherhood.

The problem with being as trained in psychology as she was, Moira thought wearily and with a certain wry amusement, was that there was only so long she could let herself get away with not facing up to things. She could do this. One form of healing without the other would be criminal neglect on her part, perhaps worse than no healing at all, and to do neither was not even an option to be considered. She could do this, and she would.

But she could _not_ continue to cope with Stryfe, much less help him, unless she dealt first with her own pain -- with the still-unhealed wound that had let his words slice deep and lash her soul raw again. 

Proteus. _Kevin_.

She abandoned the excursion into melodrama and covered her eyes, a faint, unvoiced moan creeping into her throat. Kevin. Her son. 

Conceived brutally, enough so that she'd had to drag herself to a hospital -- and so that it almost hadn't seemed worth _leaving_ the hospital before she had to return to it to give birth. But while she'd loathed Joe, she'd never loved Kevin any the less for that. Never.

Had she?

Moira stripped off her gloves and unlocked the door, then flicked off the lights on her way out and closed it quietly behind her before walking slowly down the deserted hallway, away from Stryfe, away from her office area, away from all the places she usually worked and indeed away from all the parts of the compound that were still in anything resembling regular use.

Could her anger at Joe have carried over to Kevin? Could she have unconsciously held him to blame for his father's evil, and let that poison her care for him? The questions tore at her. Could....

No.

She'd been over this, at least, before. And she had adored Kevin. She'd poured all her love, all her being, into the child; she'd never resented him, never blamed him, and it had broken her heart to see the pain he'd grown into. 

She had blamed Joe for it after Kevin went on his mad rampage. But she had not thought her son tainted before that. And it had been illogical even then.

Moira went through a heavy door and down a flight of stairs, hardly paying attention, and kept walking. The air was colder here; with no one using the section anymore, there was no need to heat it. Different wings and floors had their own thermostats and insulation.

She'd tried. She'd tried so hard, to heal him. And failed. The energies running rampant through his body had been destroying it, some instability she couldn't pinpoint turning them to burn, to eat him alive if he couldn't draw from some other source. She _had_ been able to build the devices to feed him on just the right form, the right mixture of energy, like some horrible fiery parody of breast milk.

Down more stairs. Three more empty hallways, walking with her head down, the sound of her footsteps deepening slightly as she reached the metal flooring.

She had tried decorating the room. Things tended to disintegrate, whether Kevin's doing or that of the energy feed she had never been able to determine. She had gone into the room with him as long as she dared, as long as she could, perhaps long after it was wise, and read to him, held him.... She remembered sitting in the room with Kevin on her lap, feeling the strange tingling of the energies there prickle her skin, watching the pages of _A Child's Garden of Verses_ turn slowly to golden brown, and then fluoresce a scintillating violet, and run down the spectrum to a dull red before warming in her hands and silvering to gray... and then blurring quietly into the air until nothing was left.

Weeping, she had clutched the boy to her until he whimpered she was squeezing too hard. It had not been very long after that when she had stopped taking anything into the room with her. It had been very little longer before she could not enter at all, and when she had sealed the door it had felt as if part of her soul had been ripped away and sealed on the other side as well.

Moira raised her head and stared at the door to which her feet had carried her in her half-blind wandering. At the harsh black letters. Mutant X. She mouthed the words and tasted bitter gall.

She had locked her son in here, and hidden him away. Made a prison that sustained him, from metal that bound him and energy that fed him, that kept him alive -- but was still a prison. But... she had had no choice....

She had tried to help him! She had worked hours, days, sometimes forgetting food and sleep until she was ready to collapse, once until she _did_ collapse. She had done everything she could for him, tried every avenue of research she could think of to find a cause and a remedy. She had done everything she could.

Except ask for help.

Her own treatments, or attempts thereat, hadn't harmed her son; she was almost sure. But had it been her pride, her hubris, her reluctance to tell anyone -- specifically Charles, who might have had some chance at helping -- the trouble and ask for aid, had it been these things that did do harm? Could Kevin have had a chance? It wouldn't even have had to be real control, some sort of device would have sufficed if it had kept her son alive and sane.

And under the Shadow King's influence, when Kevin had been restored to her, she had turned him away. It didn't matter that she "hadn't been herself"; the Shadow King worked by appealing to the worst in you, and the fact remained that _she_ had said the words, and rejected her son. For all intents and purposes, she had told him he would be happier dead.

But I would never have said that, her mind wailed. Not if it had been altogether me. I would never have meant it.

But I still was the one who locked him away. Still the one who wouldn't ask Charles for help. Still the one who, when he began taking and killing hosts, knew what would finally have to be done and was ready to take the responsibility for it, ready to shoot my _son_....

I was the one who lost him.

She reached out a hand to the cold metal of the door, and touched the letters painted on it. Then she let her hand fall, brushing down the door until her arm crumpled and she leaned her shoulder against it, sagging against the massive door and feeling the painful lump rise in her throat, the hot tears sting her eyes, as she pressed a trembling curled fist to her mouth.

She slid to the floor, huddled against the door to her dead son's room, and a wrenching sob shook her as tears spilled finally from her eyes. Tears for her son, for his pain, for her accursed pride, for his life and for his death.

And Moira mourned.

* * * * * * *

It could have been minutes or hours, for all Moira knew, when she came to herself again and felt the chill of the metal floor against her legs and the thick door against her side. She leaned against it still, tears finally spent, cheek and temple feeling almost feverish against the threads of her hair and the cool smoothness of the metal. 

Wearily, but with the exhausted relief that can come of crying for someone until you run out of tears, she rose -- still leaning heavily on the wall -- and began to make her way back upstairs. She had no illusions of being able to work just now; Stryfe was... cared for, for the moment, and her experiments would have to wait. Moira changed, this time, shedding her lab coat and exchanging day clothes for a warm set of pajamas before she washed her face and went to bed.

She never saw Rahne, who had come looking one more time and traced her downstairs while the laundry dried, stop short in the hall and then retreat as Moira stood and returned to the warmer parts of the compound. Rahne had stolen silently back and back, always just out of sight but near enough to track by sound and scent, her own footfalls silently padded, torn all the while between a longing to go to Moira, to comfort her, something -- and the knowledge that the woman needed this time to mourn alone, for a bit, and that somehow she would feel herself an intruder.

Moira never saw Rahne, that is, until after she had lain down in bed, and the girl tapped lightly on the door and slipped in to kiss her mother's cheek before she slept. As the door closed again, Moira found that after all, she did have another tear.

* * * * * * *


End file.
